


Ningenkakushi: Lord of the Desert

by TiedyedTrickster



Category: DBZ - Fandom, Dragon Ball
Genre: ALL THE RELATIONSHIPS - Freeform, Action, Character Study, Familial Relationships, Family, Friendship, Hiatus, Humor, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Platonic Relationships, Romance, Universe Alteration, all of the manga, all ships handled with love, applied mythology, especially Yamcha, focal character Yamcha, interpersonal relationships, no bashing of anyone, please join me as I show in detail why I love all these characters, pretty much everyone else at least touched on, rated mostly for some swearing, romantic relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiedyedTrickster/pseuds/TiedyedTrickster
Summary: Everyone comes from somewhere, even Yamcha. After all, it's not like he sprang fully-formed out of the desert, right? ...Right?Sand. Sand and sky and heat. Those are the first things he sees, the first things he feels when he becomes aware of himself...





	1. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** I will only be posting this bit once, so please read. Though this fic does NOT contain any graphic depictions of violence or injury, it is still a DBZ fic, meaning any form of injury or death that occurs within the canon manga timeline from chapter one all the way to the end of the Buu Arc has the potential to happen ‘on-screen’ here, too, at any time it is plot-appropriate. It’s DBZ – people do get badly hurt and die sometimes, even if they do always get better eventually. Furthermore, all ships, endgame or otherwise, have already been decided and carved in unyielding stone.

Sand. Sand and sky and heat. Those are the first things he sees, the first things he feels when he becomes aware of himself. He has hands – strong, with slightly blunt fingers – and he uses them to explore his face (it feels like a good face), his hair (long and wavy and dark). He looks down at himself – chest, abdomen, legs, feet with wriggly toes – and laughs, because he’s a man. He stands, still smiling, not bothering to knock sand from clothes the same colour as it, rough yellow pants and jacket with an off-white shirt, looks around, throws out his arms, and laughs again for the joy of it, because he’s a man, but he’s also a desert, and this place, this place is _his_ , because it is him and he is it, they’re the same, one entity in two forms and he can feel it, see it, all.

He slides down the dune he’s on, runs to the top of another, quickly growing accustomed to legs, arms, movement that is other than the rustle of sand or the billowing of wind or the rare patter-splat of rain. He’s the Lord of the Desert given human form, and life is grand.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Everything is new and everything is strange, all these things he’s known forever, that have always been a part of him, but which he’s never _seen_ before because he didn’t have eyes to do so. He watches lizards and mimics the sinuous motion of snakes as well as any creature with legs can hope to imitate a living ribbon of muscle, lets scorpions run up his arms and hide in his hair and pockets, and runs with the wolves. Wolves. Of all the creatures that live on him, in him, he thinks he loves wolves the best – their strength, their music, their speed. He wrestles with them, plays with them, and, sometimes, he kills them. Not on purpose or even through neglect, but simply because he is a desert, and things die in the desert – from storms, from the heat, from becoming lost. And if it is his greater self and not his hands that kill them, the deaths are still at his feet.

It doesn’t really bother him, no more than it bothers the wolves themselves when they kill rabbits or other game, or when the vultures come in turn for their own carcasses. They are true to their natures, as he is true to his, and they understand each other.

He prefers to see them alive, though, rather than as another set of whitening bones to inhabit his sands for eternity. The desert is the land of death, but it does not begrudge quarter to the living.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It is the wolves he loves best, but it is the creatures that look like him, the humans, that are the most interesting. They travel across him, going to places where nothing lives, nothing at all, and then they get surprised when they die there. The Lord of the Desert thinks that they aren’t very clever creatures as he watches them from atop a sand dune, a snake curled around one of his ankles, hiding from the sun under one of his frayed pants legs.

Sometimes he calls the oasis that roams around him, like a vulture circling the sun, and lets the humans find it and cross through to the other side, and sometimes he calls his winds and blows through their caravans with the rest of the sand as they scream. Sometimes they live and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they find the oasis on their own or the winds come from beyond his borders, and he doesn’t mind when these things happen. The desert is indifferent to human lives, after all, and he is Lord of the Desert.

At least, he pretends to be.

Indifferent, that is.

Because, while he is the desert, he is also a man now, and men for the most part are anything _but_ indifferent. So he sits on his dunes and watches them, these creatures he looks like but isn’t one of. He follows them, blowing from the top of one dune to the next on the wind. Sometimes he lies on the ground and lets the wind and the sand carry what they know to him, and so he learns the words of people, language, and something of their ways. Sometimes he sees something they have that he wants, and he drops from the rocks and takes it. Because everything that passes through his border is his, be it words or bits of food or gold and jewels or human lives. Many things he lets go again, passing out of his borders and out of his possession, but what he wants, he keeps.

He can level a caravan, strip flesh from the bone with his winds and stinging sand, but he finds as time goes that he likes best to approach the humans on their terms in these matters, with fists and feet (but not teeth (they look askance at biting for some reason (odd creatures))), and also with blades once he learns the way of them. He _likes_ blades, and he gets good with them, learns various styles of fighting from the humans as they fight him and each other, and eventually he creates his own fighting form and names it for the wolves he loves. He watches the humans and takes what he wants and laughs at them, because they’re such strange little things. They scream when their swords cut him and sand trickles out instead of the red blood they expect. They shake in fear when they see him running along the tops of dunes, the wind blowing him from the top of one to the next. They’re scared of him, but humans have always been scared of the desert, so that’s nothing new.

One day, though, he learns they have a name for his greater self – they call him the Diablo Desert, named for the demon that’s been spotted there, running through the dunes and attacking caravans. They’ve named his greater self for his lesser self, and he laughs long and loud when he hears this, because they are so right while also being so very, very wrong.

He accepts the name graciously, though, because he is a lord, after all.

Lord Diablo, of the Diablo Desert.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. He misses his footing, goes a step too far, crosses the line between ‘his’ and ‘not his.’ He’s never been off his territory before this, never considered the fact that the world is larger than him. He knew humans came from somewhere, but he’d never thought about where that somewhere _was_ before; it wasn’t important.

He crosses back over the border quickly enough then pauses, feels his face. It feels the way humans look when they’re scared, and that won’t do at all. He’s the Lord of Diablo Desert, and he has no need to fear anything! So he steps back over the border again, on purpose this time, then takes a moment to get his bearings. His greater self is still there, he can feel it, but it is… distant, even though it’s only a step away. He feels different, too, strange, less… just _less_.

Walking further he steps entirely off of the sand that spills over the edge of his border, the feeling of ‘less’ increasing a bit more, but he doesn’t stop, walking until he reaches the trees that edge near his border on this side. He finds a road (he knows about roads, as he has a few himself, though less solid than this) and follows it until he reaches a village (he doesn’t have any of those but he’s heard enough about them to recognize it for what it is). There are people there, more than he’s ever seen gathered in one place before. They talk, they laugh, they yell, and he watches them, curious. There are so many new things here, things he’s never seen before. He watches them for awhile, until a strange scent, a good scent, drifts under his nose and his stomach growls.

He slaps a hand on it in surprise – it’s never done that before! He’d barely been aware it existed. But now he knows it does and, for the first time ever, it wants something in it. He knows about eating, he’s seen it done by all sorts of creatures, but he’s never done it himself.

So now he wanders deeper into the village, hands in his pockets, following the scent, and finds a busy place where people are trading things for other things. He watches a little, getting a feel for it (this is a strange territory after all, and he does not know the rules), then follows the scent to its source, a food stall. A woman runs it, old, with greying hair, a little child at her feet. People approach and give her things, coins mostly, then she gives them bowls of food which they eat right there before returning the bowls and walking away.

He frowns, checks his pockets to see if he has anything he can offer in trade (he’s seen coins before but, really, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, so he doesn’t tend to take or hold onto them). His search produces some stones he found at the oasis that are good for throwing, a live scorpion, a sun-shaped necklace of yellow metal, and a ring with a flashing jewel. The last two items he had taken a shine to after his last raid, and thus hadn’t immediately hidden in his sands, as he eventually hides everything he claims (it’s a very convenient storage system, protecting his treasures while also leaving them within reach at any given moment). Lord Diablo frowns at the things in his hands, instantly dismissing the stones and the scorpion for potential trade (humans don’t get along well with scorpions for some reason, and good throwing stones are much too valuable for this), then decides he can bear to part with the necklace (he’ll just take it again if the woman wanders through his territory (or he’ll find a new one)). He puts the other things away and approaches the stall, holding out the necklace, speaking the human tongue for the first time ever.

“What can I get for this?”

The woman looks him over critically. “You’re a scruffy one, aren’t you?”

He bristles at this – he is wild and beautiful, because that is what deserts _are_ and he is _perfect_ – but she ignores him in favour of examining the necklace. Her eyes widen as she lifts it up, bites it, then examines the small arc of dents her teeth have left.

“For this, Scruffy, you can eat here for a month!”

He tilts his head, confused, not quite sure what a ‘month’ is, though he’s heard the word before. “Does that mean you’ll give me a bowl?”

She snorts, though not unkindly, and ladles a heap of long, dangly strips into a bowl, handing it to him. He nods, like the humans do when they’re handed something, and goes to take a bite, only to receive a stinging slap. He clutches his ear with one hand, shocked and outraged. That had hurt! Nothing has ever- he’s never- _that had hurt_! He snarls like a wolf at the old woman.

She merely glares at him. “I don’t care how much you’ve paid me, customers at _my_ stall eat like _civilized_ people! Were you raised in the desert?!”

“Yes,” he says shortly, because he gets the sudden feeling that the full truth could be dangerous – the rules seem to be different here, he can be _hurt_ here, so he needs to be cautious while he learns.

The old woman’s eyebrows raise at this admission, then her expression softens. “Orphan are you? No parents?” she adds in the face of his confusion. She softens further for some reason when he shakes his head (because he doesn’t have parents (because he’s a desert (even if he _does_ look like a man))). “Well I don’t see how you got to this age without knowing how to eat properly, but I suppose I can show you. Kami knows I’ve had to reteach my own children often enough.”

And she shows him how to use chopsticks, which he does (if only so she’ll let him eat (his stomach’s getting really unhappy with him)), and then he has his first cautious bite of food. The next bite isn’t cautious at all.

“This is good!” he says enthusiastically (why hasn’t he tried food before?! (he’s obviously been missing out)), “What is it?”

She chuckles at him with warm amusement, something else he’s never experienced first-hand before. “It’s just soba, boy.”

“It’s good!” he repeats, finishing off the bowl. He has another, and then his stomach seems to have had enough for the moment, but he knows he’ll be back again – he’s only just started food, but he thinks he’s already found a favorite.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He goes to the village fairly regularly after this, at least once every seven days (a _week_ as he learns to call it (he’s never really paid attention to time beyond ‘now’ before (or ‘day’ and ‘night’ if he had wanted to be _really_ specific (time, after all, has very little true meaning to the ageless desert)))). He tries different foods, but always he drifts back to the soba stand, getting to know the old woman, Pai, and her son, Shou, just a little. He tries to make food himself, in his territory, and doesn’t do too badly (because he understands cutting things (and if there’s one thing a desert knows better than anyone, it’s heat (mixing is a little confusing, though))). Pai even teaches him the art of noodles – all sorts, not just soba. She’s surprised the next time he shows up at her stall after she’s finished her lessons.

“Why wouldn’t I come?” he asks, puzzled, when she tells him this.

“It’s more expensive to eat out than to cook for yourself,” she explains and he laughs, because money he has access to in plenty if he wants it, though he still prefers treasure (it’s nicer to look at and generally more interesting).

“That would be poor thanks to the one who showed me you can do more with heat than burn,” he says, and gratitude is a new concept to him but, even as the desert is ever the same, it is also ever changing, faster than the human eye can see, and he is a swift learner.

Pai does not question him about his presence at her stall again for some time, not until her hair is much greyer and Shou has grown a lot.

“How old are you, Scruffy?” she asks, and it’s a name he will tolerate from her, if only because she has taught him so many useful things, but he shrugs at her question.

“I don’t know.” He may know ‘week’ and ‘month,’ and even have a vague concept of ‘year’ now, but he has no idea how much time came before he knew of these things, and no interest in figuring it out. “Why?”

“Because when we first met, you looked to me like you were about sixteen.”

“So?” he slurps down the last of his noodles, leaning casually against one of the stall’s support posts.

“So it’s been five years since then,” Pai replies, “And, in all that time, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day.”

He tilts his head to the side a little, confused, “I have aged. Time has passed, day has become night, and I have born witness to it.”

“But you don’t _look_ like you have,” Pai says evenly, “Look at Shou – he’s eleven now, and he’s grown quite a bit since you met him.”

Lord Diablo looks at where the boy plays with the other boys in the market as they run errands and admits that this is true. “But he is a boy; I am a man.”

“By now you should be,” Pai agrees, “So why do you still look like you’ve only just become one? I’m not the only one who’s noticed, you know – people are starting to talk, Scruffy. They’ve been talking for awhile now, about the barefoot youth in yellow with no family, but it’s starting to get serious. They’re saying you’re not human. What are you, child?”

He blinks, then grins, setting his bowl down on the counter again. “Never thought about it too much, actually. Some people call me ‘Diablo,’ but that’s-”

“ ** _Diablo_**?!?”

It isn’t Pai who interrupts him, though, it’s a man who has come up to buy his own meal, and his tone is one of shock and outrage. He grabs the Lord of the Desert’s shoulder and spins him around. “ _You’re_ the Diablo of the desert? All this time it’s been **_you_**?!?” and oh, there is hatred in his eyes as he speaks, “You killed my brother, my father!”

Lord Diablo shrugs, unconcerned, right up until the moment the man slams Diablo’s right arm onto Pai’s counter and draws a wicked blade.

“Let’s see how well you kill one-handed, demon!”

And he slices Lord Diablo’s arm off.

The Lord of the Desert howls like one of his wolves at the pain of it and the people around him scream as sand spills from the wound (he vaguely notices that its colour is redder than usual for some reason). The man releases him and he bolts, clutching the stump of his arm, hearing sounds of rage and fear gathering behind him, following him, and he runs, swift as a wolf, a snake, desperately afraid for his life, because out here he can hunger, out here he can hurt – what if he can also die?

He has always been strong, no matter where he is, but now, as reddish sand leaks from his arm, he feels himself starting to falter. Strange things are beginning to happen to his vision just as he reaches the edge of his territory, then his strength is increasing again as he steps onto sand, returning entirely as he crosses over into his territory and the sand and the wind rise to meet him, carry him to the top of a dune, and no sooner have his feet touched down than he takes an arrow to the back, then six more and he smiles, because it doesn’t hurt a bit.

He straightens, lets the arrows fall from him and turns to face the mob even as sand spirals up to where his arm was, shaping itself until it forms a new arm. He moves the new limb, looking it over critically, then he gives it a shake and it turns to flesh. Finally he looks down at the villagers who have chased him here, armed with weapons, some make-shift, some less so, and now it is his own eyes that glitter with hate even as he smiles, sharp as a blade.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you stupid little humans. I am the lord of this territory and you,” he _feels_ his face twist with fury, “ ** _You are denied right of passage_**!”

The winds rise and his sands rise with them, carried to lethal, flesh-slicing speed as the humans fail to realize the danger of holding their ground until too late. The storm grows and rises, stretching until the whole of Diablo Desert is ringed with his rage.

Some of the humans make it out alive.

Others don’t.

He watches it all with burning, dispassionate eyes. They had come hunting for a devil.

They can have one.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“You there, Scruffy?”

He hadn’t been, had been far away in the center of Dancing Point, but he is there by the time Pai finishes speaking. She’s standing by a rock, just outside the reach of the winds that still blow, encircling his territory. He stands in the middle of them, unaffected by the sand they carry, hair and clothes unruffled by their passage, glaring at her. “What do you want, old woman?”

She clicks her tongue at him, disapproving. “That’s a fine way to treat the person who’s let you eat for free at her stall for near five years now, not to mention taught you the secret art of noodle making!”

He bristles at this implication of debt. “I didn’t eat free, I paid!”

Pai chuckles and tosses him a small-ish bag. It clinks when he catches it, and inside is a jumble of coins, jewelry, and sparkling stones. One piece in particular catches his eye, the sun-shaped necklace of yellow metal, gold, with the small arc of tooth marks in it. He looks up sharply and stills the wind in this section of his border, though elsewhere it continues to blow.

“Why do you still have all this? Why not trade or sell it?”

“I thought you were a bandit, Scruffy. There’s laws about trading with bandits, you know,” she says sternly before her voice softens, “Well, that occurred to me later, actually. At first I thought you were some poor orphan who’d found something he didn’t know the worth of. After that it was so hit or miss, I was never entirely sure what to believe – you were as likely to give me a pretty piece of stone as silver. And you seemed like a nice boy, ignorant of the strangest things, I’ll grant you, but willing to learn.” She walks forward a few paces, intent. “And you’ve never done a wrong thing in the village before today. Who are you, Scruffy?”

He laughs, but it’s not his usual joyful sound, rather something much harsher, darker, the wingbeats of circling vultures echoing in its depths. “Didn’t you hear? I’m Diablo.”

“I heard you say some people called you that,” she replies tartly, “However I’ve raised seven children, buried two, and am in the process of raising my grandson, so don’t think I’ll fall for guff like that so easily!”

He stares are her and, slowly, the rage and the hate (such unfamiliar emotions for him) recede, leaving him confused and hurt. “I- Diablo is my name, the name you people gave to me. ‘The Diablo Desert.’ That is who I am, what I am – the desert, the _lord_ of the desert, its spirit given form. I- I have no answer beyond that.”

“Oh,” Pai blinks, then moves back and sits heavily on the nearby stone, “No wonder you don’t understand humans.”

“Why did that man cut my arm off?” he asks plaintively, stepping forward, “I grew a new one, but it hurt! I didn’t do anything to him!”

“You killed his family,” she says gently, a deep sorrow in her eyes, “Can’t you see why he’d be upset?”

He shrugs, feeling helpless and confused, “I don’t even know if it was me who did it – I don’t know who his family was and there are mortal bandits in my territory, too. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t, but I don’t know!”

“You can’t remember?!” she looks horrified.

“I remember everything!” he snaps, “But I’m a desert – my sands are full of bones! Wolf, lizard, bird, all kinds! I’ve listened to travelers and their stories; you call me the Land of Death. So why should I notice one life passing more than another, just because it’s human?! Why should I even care – there are always more of you, and you barely live any time at all!”

Pai stares at him then stands, and he finds himself unable to hold her gaze and unable to explain why this is. Walking forward, she places her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face for a moment. Then she pulls him into an embrace. He stiffens at first – for all that they are on good terms, she’s never touched him like this before. No one has. Pai makes a quiet sound as he slowly relaxes, half sigh and half laugh.

“Oh Scruffy… you probably have centuries on me, but you aren’t very old for a spirit, are you? Human enough to ask why, but not enough to understand the answers you get.” She leans back, takes his face in her hands, smiles at him. “If you’re anything like my boys, you’ll be wanting to hide off somewhere now and nurse your hurts, so here’s a little free advice to you – don’t. Find a different village, far away from this one, and keep learning. You seem like you have the potential to be such a nice person; don’t let hate and fear poison you.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, I’m a desert,” he grumbles, but they both know he’s lying.

Pai smiles, then lets go of him again, steps back, and bows. “It has been an honour to know you, Lord Diablo of Diablo Desert. I will pray that you eventually find the answers to your questions.” And she turns to walk away.

And that- that is wrong. She can’t just _go_ like that, not when she’s taught him so much, given him so much, and it turns out he’s never repaid her, not when he- when he _owes_ \- “Pai, wait!”

She pauses, turns at his call. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls the sun necklace from the bag, dropping the rest. Holding it up to his mouth, he breaths on it, and the metal glows berry red for a moment before cooling to yellow again, but it’s a warmer yellow than before. Walking forward, he places it in Pai’s hand.

“You have my blessing,” he says, staring intently at her, “The Diablo Desert shall always grant you and yours safe passage, as long as you carry this with you.”

She holds it up, expression stunned, looking between him and the little sun. “You can do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” he says, “I _am_ a kami, after all.”

And, just like that, he realizes, he is. He’s a kami, a nature kami, that is the answer he searched for earlier, what the combination of man and desert within him form, and he laughs in startled delight as this knowledge rises up in his mind, like it has been waiting for him to need it. And now he thinks to look inward, to the place this knowledge rose from, he realizes there are other things to know, other things he can learn to do, and he has such a long time to discover them all, as swiftly or slowly as he likes. His gaze returns to Pai and he smiles again, a truer expression this time.

“Thank-you, Pai. You’ve taught me so many things, even if I don’t understand them all yet,” leaning down, he gives her a slightly awkward hug, “I’ll never forget you. Even if my sands scatter to the winds and I forget everything else, even if I lose myself, I will remember you, and what you have taught me.”

And then he’s running, back into his sands, laughing, and the wind carries him to the top of the next dune as he leaps, Pai’s laughter following him like a promise.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He keeps his unspoken vow to Pai and does find new villages, though he’s careful not to stay in any one too frequently, and to alter his clothes to fit the local styles a bit better before he enters them, though the basics of the outfit remain unchanged (a white-ish shirt and a loose coat and pants in sandy yellow, all ragged and worn and comfortable, sometimes with a kerchief tied around his head because he likes the look of it, though never with shoes (and over time some of the details will change again and again, but never these)). He continues to learn about humans and the beast folk who sometimes live near or among them and also about himself and his vulnerabilities off of his territory. Though still a mighty warrior, much of his power is tied up in his greater self, inaccessible if he moves even a step off of it, and so he learns subtlety and finesse as well as brute strength.

Now that he is paying more detailed attention to them, he learns that humans are strangely close to one another, a bit like his wolves (whom he still loves best, even if humans are very interesting). Watching people interact turns from idle amusement to a fond pastime of his as time continues on. He still takes what he wants from travelers (it is his right after all), but he chases the mortal thieves and bandits from his territory, and sometimes what he really wants is to simply sit nearby and listen to people talk around their campfires at night. He likes to watch the groups called ‘families’ best these days – their lives are so different from his. It’s not that he’s alone – all that lives in and on his greater self is with him – but it is a different type of closeness.

Then again, there is also his faraway friend, whom he met not long after his abrupt leave-taking of Pai’s village. She has black hair like his, only hers falls very straight where his waves and curls, and she dresses in silver rather than yellow, in a style he’s unfamiliar with. He doesn’t know her name, sadly, because she’s never been able to tell it to him.

Because she lives on the moon.

He knows she sees him, because the reason he noticed her at all was that she had been waving at him. The sight had been such a shock that he’d missed his footing and tumbled down a dune, and she’d covered her mouth and shaken with laughter he couldn’t hear.

They’ve been friends ever since, he’s sure of it.

It’s a strange sort of friendship compared to the ones he’s seen the humans and beast folk form, because they can’t talk to each other – even as kami, they’re too far away from each other for their voices to carry. Sometimes he sings to her with his wolves, though, or forms his sands into huge patterns that only they can see – she because she is so high up, he because it’s his sand and he knows it as he knows his skin. She, in turn, sometimes dances for him, making graceful patterns with her silver-veined fan, and sometimes she talks. He can’t hear her, but he gets the feeling that she might be lonely up there, with no snakes to curl around her ankles, no scorpions to hide in her pockets, no wolves to run and wrestle with, and so he does his best to pay attention and nod at what he thinks are the right moments (a thing Pai taught him to do).

Sometimes, when they first met, she would draw strange symbols on bits of paper, and at first he had tried copying them in his sands, to her great excitement. Then they had both realized that the symbols meant something more to her than they did to him. She tries to explain them to him for a very long time, and he tries to learn, he really does, but without words to accompany the explanations the task proves to be impossible, and they eventually give it up. Sometimes he still uses them in his patterns, though, and she always makes a face like she’s snorting or hides her laughter in her sleeves or waves a falsely annoyed hand at him when he does this, and that’s how he knows it’s a good game.

He likes his faraway friend.

But, as time passes, he begins to think he might like to have a nearby friend, too, one whose presence is not limited to when the moon is present and perfectly round above his territory.

(And, sometimes, a little voice inside him whispers a desire for something more than friendship (but it’s a very human-sounding voice, so he generally ignores it.))

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Diablo doesn’t just learn about how humans interact happily with each other, though. He learns more about Martial Artists and Warriors and those who practice more subtle arts, and of weapons of legend and dangers of fact. Of anything that could hurt him, be a danger to him while he is exploring outside his territory. Because he is stronger than most humans, even off of his sands (he’s never been beaten on them), and much faster, but, as he learned in Pai’s village (now long since reclaimed by the jungle), if he is caught, if he is cornered, he can be hurt.

He doesn’t _like_ being hurt.

And then he learns that there are those who can sometimes prove dangerous within his territory as well. One day a strange group of humans crosses his borders. They wear heavy robes with elaborate designs, and they call him by his name. People have been doing this on occasion lately, trying to get favours or knowledge or other things from him. Sometimes he answers such summons, generally he doesn’t (they tend to be rather boring encounters on his end), but this time he has no choice, because these people have a girl child with them, and she carries the sun amulet, the blessing he once gifted to Pai.

He appears right in the midst of them, to their surprise, crouched in front of the girl. Her face is dirty but also wet, in the way human faces go sometimes when they are unhappy. Diablo’s never been so close to one actually doing it until now, though, and he ignores the men to examine her curiously. She flinches when he brushes a finger against her cheek, and a new bead of wet trickles out of one eye to land on it. He lifts it up to his eyes, smells it, tastes it – salty-strange.

Diablo doesn’t have time to do more than this, though, because one of the men touches him, brushes his hair away from his neck and tries to place something around it. The desert kami’s gone in an instant, taking the item with him, though he can’t go far thanks to whatever they’ve done to force his presence here in the first place. But it’s far enough to give him time to take the thing from his neck – a metal collar, engraved with strange shapes and patterns a bit like the ones his faraway friend makes and, while he doesn’t understand exactly what they mean, he knows, _knows_ , that if the man had managed to secure the fastenings on this item, Diablo would have been caught, would have been _bound_ to the will of these strange people.

A snarl echoes from his chest and his winds begin to rise, swirling around him and the strangers.

“Careful, oh Lord of the Diablo Desert,” one of them calls out, “Forget you not, we hold in our hands that which you treasure!”

And Diablo does not need to look up to know the man is holding the girl child by the hair with a knife to her throat.

It is a mistake of the stranger’s to do this. The men travel with the girl, they have used the amulet to summon him and prevent his leaving, but these are things they have done wrongly, and the blessing of the amulet protects the girl alone, for these men are none of hers.

Diablo looks like a human, but the sound that comes out of him now is anything but, a roar comprised of screaming winds, snarling wolves, the hiss of an angered snake, the strike of a scorpion’s tail – the rage of the desert given sound as his sand lashes. At the end of it, only he and the girl child remain. Of the men who tried to use them both, there is no trace; not even bones remain. The girl stares at him, eyes wide and terrified, and she scuttles backwards, falling to all fours when he approaches her, too scared to stand.

“D-d-demon!”

“‘Diablo,’” he corrects gently, and he crouches down and holds out a hand, the way he’s seen humans do with scared animals in their care, “Can I see your necklace?”

She puts a hand over it, protective (understandable after what she’s presumably been through), “It’s my family’s treasure; it keeps us safe.”

He laughs at this. “I know – I’m the one who gave it to them! Come on, let me see it; I don’t want this to happen again.”

She stares at him for a long moment, then cautiously scoots forward and holds out the necklace on the end of its long chain, not taking it from around her neck. Fair enough. He reaches forward, touches it with one finger, and it glows briefly as he alters the blessing within it slightly, so that it may no longer be used against him in this manner. Then he takes the girl on his back and returns her to a nearby village. There’s a ruckus going on there, people panicking and arguing over what they should do, torches being lit against the coming darkness.

He places the girl at the edge of the light and, as she runs towards one specific group, more frantic than the rest, with a sob, some people look past her and see him. They point and shout and he smirks, vanishes into the dusky trees, too swift to catch.

Only once he is back deep in his territory does he halt and remove the hateful collar from where he’d stowed it in his ragged coat. He turns it over with his fingertips, touching it as little as possible; its very existence represents a threat to him, and it will have to go. It is metal, sturdily made and laced with enchantments, but he is Diablo, Lord of the Diablo Desert, and he is sand. Stone, wood, bone, metal… all give way eventually to sand’s corrosion, for only sand is eternal. By the time he is through with it, the collar is nothing but a handful of darker grains mixed into the mass of his greater self.

It is the first time humans have tried to capture him, but it is not the last. However it is also the closest they ever come to succeeding. In this growing age of magic and sorcery, Diablo allows himself to fade somewhat into the background, becoming more elusive, the stories of him becoming more legend than fact as he observes from afar, learns to slip things he desires from caravans without anyone knowing he was ever there, switching the contents of bags and pockets in various marketplaces for practice and laughing in the shadows at the confusion it causes. It’s less exciting than head-on battles and the like, but it is also safer for the moment as he learns the ways of magic and how to avoid it.

Because Diablo is the desert, wild and beautiful, and he will not suffer himself to be bound by any will but his own.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Times passes. Diablo remains as he always has been, but the mortals change, slowly turning from one sort of magic to another, to the craft of iron and steel and new creations called ‘machines,’ and the Lord of the Desert is entranced. Wagons that move without draft animals to pull them and which go faster and faster as time progresses, things that fly through the sky like birds. A new magic, a new science – technology. It fascinates him enough to bring him out of hiding to a certain extent, to again exert his right of claim on anything that passes between his borders, and then to spend days happily puzzled as he tries to figure out how the hell whatever he’s taken works. Visiting the villages proves invaluable in this endeavor and is an education in and of itself as the structures change with the times to include pipes that carry water right into individual houses, with no need to haul buckets from the well, and magical pots that cook rice for you with the aid of something called ‘electricity.’ He has to be cautious in his enthusiasm not to get himself noticed for frequenting any one village too often again over time.

This new era is not without its dangers, though. Some are the same as they ever were – people cannot seem to help but want to fight each other over the most ludicrous things (he’ll never fully understand the creatures, he really won’t), and, even though those who wear elaborate robes and twist the universe to their will have grown far fewer, other beings of those times remain, spirits and kami like Diablo, along with things far more sinister in nature…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

One day the wind that blows in from the land around his territory carries strangeness, smoke and screams and unclean death. And the next time he goes to his favorite village, it’s not there, just smoking ruins and many bodies. It turns his stomach. He is no stranger to death, and he has many bones in his sands, each one now noted, the life once attached to it at least partially remembered, as he remembers all things that occur within his territory and that happen to his lesser self. That is part of what it is to be Lord of the Desert, after all. But this…

Death in the desert, death from combat, death from illness, from age, those are natural. This- this is not, this is unnatural, _unclean_ , and it sickens him. He returns to his territory swiftly, for once taking nothing with him.

A little time passes, then again comes the wind, filled with unnatural death and smoke from the direction of another village. He doesn’t check on this one. Instead, he goes to a third, farther along than the other two but in the same direction that whatever is causing this destruction is likely heading in. This village is closer to his territory than any other has ever been, almost on his borders, and he has favored it since it was built, for its convenience and the sense of companionship it provides.

When the creature comes, however, there is no village, not any longer, only sand and the Lord of Diablo Desert, waiting for it. The Lord of the Desert knows it, him, the _demon_ at a glance, recognizes his nature and place in the world as he once recognized his faraway friend, and knows that he himself is known in return. The demon stands at the edge of his territory and offers him things, free reign to expand his borders where he will, to take what he likes, kill as he pleases.

The Lord of the Desert laughs at him. He feels no need to further extend his borders, for he already has the best portion of the world (and, to be honest, swallowing the village has left him feeling stretched and strange and keen to avoid doing it again), and he already takes what he likes within his territory, as he always has; that is a right he was born to. As for the killing, death may be part of his nature, but destruction of the sort the demon king speaks of is not. And so he sits on a rock within his borders and laughs as the demon grinds his teeth and purples with rage.

“Go sell your false dreams elsewhere,” Diablo mocks, “I have no use for them.”

The demon king snarls at him. “Think you I could not simply rip the village from your sands, oh Lord of the Desert?”

“I deny you and yours right of passage,” the desert kami says easily, then laughs again as the demon is forced by this to step back from where he’d had one foot partway over the border, “And what I take I keep. You know the laws, Daimao – come back when you’ve kicked over heaven.”

And, to underscore his message, he lets his winds rise, carrying sand at lethal speeds across his greater self, though he is careful to leave pockets of stillness for the creatures living upon him, and to not destroy what plant life he has. Then he walks away into the storm, leaving the furious demon king on his border.

“THINK NOT THAT YOU ARE BETTER THAN ME!” the demon howls over his winds, “THE VILLAGERS ARE NO LESS DEAD FOR YOUR HAVING KILLED THEM THAN HAD I DONE SO, DIABLO!”

And the Lord of the Desert lets his winds carry his laughter everywhere, because he knows what the demon king does not, about secret caves, caves deep as hell, buried far beneath his sands. But then, who could blame the creature, for what demon would willingly return to hell?

And who but a devil would think of hiding people there?

Eventually the demon leaves, and Diablo allows his sands to settle. Eventually, travelers begin to come through again, bringing word of the demon king’s defeat. Then the village people emerge from the caverns once more, as many leaving as first entered. There is no village for them to return to (for, as he has said, what he takes he keeps), so they disperse, going to make new homes with friends and family in other places, leaving their gratitude with the Lord of the Desert, and he tells himself he is glad to see them gone. In part this is true – the sudden feel of footsteps and fire and life in his secret, quiet places has been most unsettling. But part of him has watched the families, the friends, as he always watches the goings-on within his greater self, and the little voice whispering inside him that these would be fine things to have for himself grows a little louder.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Time passes, and the Lord of the Desert continues to watch and to learn. On a whim, he selects a large rock he’s quite fond of and begins to fashion it into a house of his own, with large holes for windows and several levels and a cold, swift-rushing stream he raises partway to the surface in the lowest one so that water may be easily taken from its fast-flowing waters (he may not fully understand the point of this whole ‘plumbing’ business or how it works, but the point is that mortals have running water in their houses so damned if he’s not going to have it in his). It’s the work of about a morning to get the basic shaping done, a task that would likely have taken much longer were it not for the fact that he can shape his territory to his whim, and after this he slows down to do the detail work.

He’s picked up many things from humans over the years, and one is that whoever is in charge of a place tends to have the best house. That means that, as Lord of the Desert and absolute ruler of this territory, his house has to be the best, so he goes slowly, carefully sorting through the things he’s taken over his life to make sure only the finest are used in the furnishing of it. Fortunately he has excellent taste, and absorbing that village and having the villagers in his caverns temporarily hadn’t hurt, either. So he knows that there needs to be a room with a bed, and that the blankets on that bed should be warm and soft and a touch worn. That there need to be rugs on the floor here and there, and that you can tell a rug’s quality by the richness of the colours. Shelves should be made of wood, and they require one or two objects that are interesting to look at on them. Ovens, in contrast, should be made of mud bricks, and must be kept very clean and devoid of clutter…

When it is done, he looks around and nods to himself, pleased. It is an excellent house, worthy of a kami like him – still wonderfully rock-shaped on the outside, pleasant and colourful on the inside (good desert colours, golds and yellows, browns and oranges, dashes of red and hints of dusty green). He’s even brought some of his nicer small rocks inside, and a bowl of his very best sand, the rich golden stuff from over by his north-western border, to set on the shelves, next to his carefully gathered cooking implements (some of the few things he has been very careful to trade for over the years instead of simply claiming (he likes cooking and Pai had made sure to instill how valuable good cooking tools were, from a sturdy bowl to a reliably sharp knife)). Truly, it is an exemplary house.

Therefore it’s a bit of a shame that no one else will ever get a chance to see it…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

 Some time after the incident with the demon king and the completion of his house, the humans come up with something delightfully new and clever – small containers that hold more than they should and make a sharp ‘poi’ sound when they release their contents. At first they’re about the size of a coconut, and sometimes instead of deploying they just explode, but, swift as lightning (to Diablo, at least), they get more reliable, the size shrinking as the amount they can contain grows until the largest are about half the length of his little finger and can hold an entire house inside.

He steals so many of these ‘hoi poi capsules,’ so many. Seriously, they are the _most_ interesting things, you can even get empty ones and put your own things in them, it’s amazing, and they have little labels so you can remember what you put in which, in case they get all jumbled up. Diablo’s never figured out what those marks people sometimes make on paper stand for, so he devises his own labeling system, based on colour and the fact that he never forgets anything, and thus can get really finicky with the various shades.

Technically these capsules are absolutely useless to him – all he needs to do is put a hand into the nearby sand or stone or even his own pockets if he’s feeling especially lazy, and he can reach and remove anything he’s got hidden away within his greater self, and it’s not like he needs to be efficient with space, he’s _huge_. But they’re so _interesting_ , and it’s so entrancing to fit a special blue-striped capsule to his favorite scimitar, the one he took back long before cars were a thing, with the beautiful blade made of watery blue-tinted metal, and watch it appear and disappear in silent puffs of smoke. Sometimes he wonders how people can complain so easily of being bored – he’s been around for _ages_ and, in his opinion, the world’s only gotten more interesting as time has passed.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

One day a strange group of creatures enters his territory. They look like animals, and not in the manner of the beast folk but like his wolves, like _real_ animals, but they move and talk like people. Shape-shifters. He’s seen a few over the years, but never in a large group like this; he’d been under the impression they were quite rare, but, then, he doesn’t know very much about them – they aren’t common around here. Interesting. He follows their group, notices how they grow subtly more tense when he’s nearby, even though he stays out of sight, and they don’t seem to understand _why_ they’re tense. They make him laugh, because they’ve forgotten some of the wisdom that was once their right as creatures, who can always tell when kami or spirits are around, but they also fascinate him, because they are like him – something between human and not human.

One creature in particular gets especially upset by his presence, a furry blue-grey being with a creamy face and stomach that generally looks like a cat. She cries when she gets too tense, which irritates the rest of the group to the point that, one night, they wedge her between some rocks in a cliff while she’s asleep and then run off without her. She wakes up very stuck and very alone and very afraid and, as usual, she starts to cry.

This makes him uncomfortable for some reason – has every time she’s done so, actually. It’s like if one of his wolves started to cry. It’s not right. Every other time this had happened the other beings had been there to stop her, but now they’re gone and she doesn’t stop and it looks like she might just cry until she turns into dust and blows away. And it strikes him that this would be- would be such a _waste_. She’s such an interesting, pretty little cat-creature, he doesn’t want to add her bones to his sands just yet.

So he drops down from the rock he’d been perched on to land lightly beside her and tweaks one of her ears. “Hey, stop that – you’ll dry up if you don’t!”

She squeaks, gasps, hiccups, and stares at him with wide eyes, though the tears don’t stop entirely. “B-bu-b-but I-I-I’m _s-scared_ ,” she whimpers, her breathing so ragged from the crying that the words are having a hard time getting out.

He tilts his head to the side. “Does crying help with that?” it’s an honest question. He doesn’t cry himself – can’t like this, actually, he’s too dry – and while he’s learned more about it over time, the baseline concept is still somewhat confusing.

She drops her eyes, “N-n-no,” she sniffles, “It d-doesn’t. B-b-but they _l-l-left_ me, and I’m stuck!”

He doesn’t see why she’s so worried. “So? Just change into something smaller and climb out.”

She blinks, shocked. Apparently she’d forgotten she could do that. “Change into a squirrel!” There’s a little puff of smoke, and then a blue-grey squirrel scurries out of the crack. Another puff of smoke and she’s a cat again, looking up at him gratefully. “Thanks, mister… um, what’s your name?”

“I’m the Lord of the Diablo Desert,” he says grandly, but for some reason she doesn’t look impressed.

“No, your _name_. I’m Pu’ar,” she bows a little in introduction, “Who are you?”

He blinks for a moment, because usually people just call him whatever they like before they hear his title or the name humans first gave him, and are scared of him after they hear them. He’s never had to _provide_ a name for himself before. But-

“Yamcha,” he says firmly, because it’s a name he’s heard a few times over the years, and he likes the sound of it.

Pu’ar smiles and holds out a paw. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Yamcha! Thank-you for helping me!”

“Sure,” he says, gently shaking her paw.

“Um,” she looks around nervously, “Do you have a map of the desert I could copy? Or something? I don’t know how to get to the border from here, and I’m bad with directions.”

He grins at her. “I can help you – I know the whole desert.”

“ _Really_?”

“Yep.”

“The _whole thing_?”

“Yep.” And he preens a little at the look of admiration she gives him. No one’s ever been _impressed_ by what he can do before – usually they’re just scared (then again he hasn’t shown off much lately (someone tried to catch him again last time he did (they failed of course (but it was still annoying)))). He leads her to his border, because he said he would, but he takes the long way, because he never said he wouldn’t, and because… he likes talking to her. And when they reach his border he hesitates because, when she’s not upset, she’s very nice and fun to talk to, and he wants to keep her. It would be within his rights to do so if he chose to, everything that crosses his borders belongs to him, _everything_ , but… he’s never tried to keep something, some _one_ , that was _alive_ before. He can’t hide _her_ in his sands for safekeeping, and he feels that to hold her, as those people once tried to hold him… she wouldn’t like that any more than he had. But he doesn’t want her to go.

So…

“Hey, Pu’ar?” he rubs the back of his neck when she turns to look at him (because deserts don’t usually ask for things and he’s not used to it (at least, not when he’s on his territory)).

“Yes, Lord Yamcha?”

“You, um, you don’t have to- would you like to stay?”

She stares blankly at him for a moment, and for that moment he feels a pang of something in his chest, something he doesn’t understand. Because she’s going to leave and he won’t stop her if she does and he wants to but he won’t and he’s never _lost_ anything before-

Then she frowns, furry brows drawn together in such a human expression on an animal face, and asks, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want me to stay?” she asks, obviously confused now, “I’m not… they always chased me and teased me at Shape-shifter school, and then they’d call me a crybaby.”

“They were stupid then,” he says casually, grinning a little as he does, “Do you have anyone waiting for you?”

She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “Not really, no one I couldn’t just write or call instead. I’ve graduated, so I’m an adult now.” She puffs up a little at this, obviously very proud of herself, adding, “I’m very young to be an adult, you know.”

“Stay here with me then,” he invites, holding out a hand, “I won’t tease or chase.”

“But why do you want me to?” she asks again, plaintively.

He tilts his head to the side and smiles. “Because I like you, and I want to be friends.”

She blinks, then smiles a little and puts her paw in his hand. “Okay.”

They shake, and he gets the feeling that he’s just found something very precious indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I have always loved about DBZ is how it contains mythological/supernatural elements as well as sci-fi stuff. Even Vegeta describes the Namekians’ abilities as ‘sorcerous,’ and the heroes are trained by literal gods, not to mention stuff like Kinto’un, the nyoi-boi, and that one mermaid Goku finds (oh Goku). But, anyway, I’ve always loved these elements of the story, so naturally I love playing with them.
> 
> Thus, hello, Diablo.
> 
> Hello Yamcha.
> 
> Yes, I’m making him a kami. And I’m going to do it without overpowering him, writing him or anyone else horribly OOC, or even changing the canon plotline that much (a couple of tweaks were made here and there, mostly in the Cell and Buu arcs, but nothing major). There are many fics filling in the ‘three year gap’ and the ‘seven year gap’ in this fandom. I am going to cover the entire original manga of DB and DBZ, as well as the several millennia of backstory we just got and an entirely original arc after the ‘epilogue’ chapters of the manga (this fic will be mostly disregarding the anime, and entirely disregarding GT, DBS, and DB Minus (sole potential exception Gine – she’s the only thing I really liked out of newer additions to the fandom)). The focus is on Yamcha, but expect to see pretty much everyone at some point or another.
> 
> Heck, don’t just expect to see them – expect them to be cool! Because I like almost the entire cast of protagonists from this series (sole exception Yajirobe, and even he amuses me at times), as well as a handful of the antagonists. Seriously, everyone. Even Vegeta (when a lot of Yamcha fans seem to take umbrage with him from what I’ve seen), even Hercule Satan and Chichi, I like them all. I just like Yamcha best.
> 
> …okay, Yamcha and Raditz, but I’m focusing on Yamcha in this one. 
> 
> The fun thing to me about Diablo’s house is that it isn’t actually that fancy at all. He lives out in the sticks – heck, he is the sticks! A venerable kami he might be, but the fanciest house he’s ever seen was a very simple two-story affair. Likewise, he’s learned what makes a fine house from the people who live nearby, who were more often talking about what made a good home than a fancy one. Thus Kung Pao is decorated with pretty rocks and bedded with wool and cotton, even though he’s got gold and silks hidden away in those sands of his.
> 
> Well, maybe a little silk – it does hold colours very well, after all, and it’s absolutely lovely to touch! :D
> 
> Pu’ar’s a bit of a prodigy at shape-shifting, so she graduated a few years early, meaning that she is indeed a rather younger adult than you generally see wandering around.
> 
> In regards to Diablo’s age: physically and mentally he’s about the equivalent of a sixteen-year-old, both when he first awakens and by the time he meets Pu’ar because, while he looks very human, he isn’t one, he’s a being made basically of spirit and sand, so certain things work a little differently for him, including the aging process. How differently they work will be addressed in coming chapters. Later chapters will also be somewhat shorter, due to not having to cover several millennia of backstory – so far they tend to average about 5000-7000 words, not counting ANs.
> 
> The current game plan is to update once a month, on the first, but this could change eventually. Now hold onto your hats, folks, ‘cause here we go!
> 
> Ningenkakushi: Lord of the Desert and the concepts and original characters and storylines contained within (c) Tie-dyed Trickster/GreenTrickster 2017  
> All DBZ characters and settings (c) their respective owners, primarily Akira Toriyama, please support the official release and revel in the fact that we live in an era with so much cool DBZ swag available to us!


	2. Bandit Dawns and School Days

Keeping Pu’ar was a good idea. She’s fun and interesting and actually a very skilled shape-shifter, able to become pretty much anything she can imagine, and she’s not sure what her time limit for holding a shift is. She says her record is a few days in one shape other than her own, but she’d gotten bored at that point and turned into something else. She can float, too – bobbing along when she wants to like the pull of the ground doesn’t even register (it’s not as fast as him riding the wind across the dunes (but it’s still a good trick)).

At first she cries a lot, because she’s easily scared and doesn’t realize how strong she can be. It’s why he never gets around to showing her some of his better tricks, like calling the winds or reforming his greater self or even how he can ride the wind like so much sand, why he stops carrying scorpions in his pockets and letting snakes curl around his ankles or in his shirt. He doesn’t want to scare her away.

However he doesn’t want her to go through life scared of the world, either. It… hurts, seeing her scared. He doesn’t have an injury or anything but, even when they’re on his territory, it hurts. So he does his best to teach her not to be scared, and it’s a lesson she learns pretty well. It doesn’t always work, though – sometimes she still cries (but she quiets if he holds her (she says he makes her feel safe (he likes that (no one’s ever said that to him before (and he likes it)))). He shows her how to use some weapons so she can defend herself – she’s good with the ranged ones, not physically strong enough to be suited to hand-to-hand or things like swords or spears, but what she’s truly excellent with is her shape-shifting. Her strength remains about the same, but she’s creative and fast, and that can make her very dangerous indeed, especially as she begins to put on a bit more muscle.

He also teaches her how to survive in his greater self, what’s good to eat, where to find water, where to find shade (and of course he knows all these things (he’s been watching how people and animals survive in him forever, after all)). He shows her the little blue teardrop necklace that can call the Wandering Oasis to the wearer (at least, it does since he’d told it to the night before), and she’s the proudest thing in the world when he says she can be the one to hold onto it, tucking the pendant carefully into the fur around her neck (he’s a little embarrassed by this actually (it’s not like he actually _needs it_ to call the oasis (it’s his oasis – it always comes when he calls (the necklace is for _her_ )))).

But, as much as he teaches her, she teacher him more.

She teaches him ‘home’ when he shows her the house he made and they start living there together, and ‘concern’ when she stays out in the sun too long and gets sick. She teaches him to read, and to write (and he hadn’t realized those weird squiggles were _words_ before! (Pu’ar doesn’t know the symbols his faraway friend taught him, though (that’s how he learns ‘disappointment’))). She fusses at him to wear shoes so his feet won’t burn, and goggles so the sand won’t blind him when he rides the airbike he took awhile back (neither of which he needs to wear (because he is a desert – he doesn’t burn and he’s _made_ of sand) but he wears them anyway so she won’t worry).

She teaches him ‘friendship’ and how to be not a desert _or_ a man but a person. She does what no other mortal has possibly ever done before, not even Pai.

And she doesn’t even know she’s done it.

And he loves her best for it, even above his wolves.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Lord Yamcha?” she asks him one day as he makes lunch (he eats regular meals these days (it’s a way to ensure Pu’ar _also_ eats regular meals (because sometimes she forgets (and also he enjoys food (and cooking))))).

He’s in the middle of tasting the sauce, has just put the spoon in his mouth, actually, so he just looks at her and raises his eyebrows for her to continue.

She shifts a little on her chair at the table, the one they made specially so she doesn’t need to sit on a box. “Are you a bandit?”

He thinks about this for a moment as he rolls the sauce around in his mouth. He has a territory, he takes things from people, and he generally fights them for said things (because he is an excellent warrior and also it’s more fun than just taking them). Finally he nods, adding a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of ginger to the sauce as he does so. “Yes, I’m a desert bandit.” He grins as he says it, because it’s a very literal description of him in some ways, even if Pu’ar doesn’t believe him about being a desert (he told her once when they’d been lying in his sands, watching the stars and the half moon (Pu’ar had laughed and not believed him when he told her (though she had also said he was the desert to _her_ (so he’d just tucked her under his arm and let it drop)))).

However now Pu’ar’s face is serious when he turns to look at her, and he feels a thread of worry now because he’s just remembered that most people don’t _like_ bandits, and if she thinks he is one, she might leave.

“And that’s where you get things from?” Pu’ar asks, still serious, “Our food and clothes and stuff?”

He nods. Some things he buys at the villages near his borders – food mostly – but he uses money he’s taken or gotten in exchange for treasure to pay for it (his clothes are still the same worn, sandy yellow and off-white things he first woke up in, but he doesn’t mention that to Pu’ar at the moment).

His friend frowns a little deeper and folds her arms, chin in one paw as she floats over next to him to watch him cook. He recognizes this as her thinking face and knows she doesn’t appreciate him talking when she has it on, so he stays quiet, finishing the sauce and pouring it over the meat just as it hits a perfect medium rare (he _likes_ cooking (and, after all this time, he’s _good_ at it)). He serves it into two bowls over lightly seasoned rice and puts them on the table, all while watching Pu’ar out of the corner of his eyes. She joins him as he sits, pours herself a cup of tea from the pot that’s always brewing there (she’d been delighted to find someone else who likes it as thoroughly-seeped as she does (he hadn’t realized there was another way to make it)). They eat in silence, and he’s just finishing his meal when Pu’ar apparently comes to a decision, because she looks up at him, expression determined.

“Next time you go on a raid, I’m coming with you!”

And that is most certainly _not_ what he’d been expecting her to say. “Why?”

“Because you do everything and that’s not fair,” she says firmly, “So I want to help.”

“You do the dishes,” he points out (and he will never admit to how much he appreciates that (because water he doesn’t mind, but soap is… weird)).

She waves a paw dismissively. “That’s not enough. Next time you go out, I’m going with you!”

And she does.

And she does wonderfully, has come so far from the kitten who cried because she was stuck in some rocks, and he’s so proud of her (he’s never been proud of anything but himself before (it feels good)), and after that she always joins him.

There are other changes that come with this development as well. Pu’ar starts doing lookout duty (which is unnecessary (because he _knows_ the instant anything crosses his borders (knows exactly where they are as long as they stay within his territory (he doesn’t mention this to Pu’ar, though))).

She also decides Lord Yamcha needs more impressive, bandit-like clothes. He resists at first, because he knows for a fact that his sandy yellow clothes are the best in the world (they’re _his_ , after all), but Pu’ar says that a bandit as notorious as him should have a more dramatic look. They argue about it for awhile, then he triumphantly points out that going to a tailor would be a bad idea for something like this and neither of them can sew. He’s smug as he goes off to practice his swordplay, knowing that he’s definitively won this argument.

Pu’ar learns how to sew.

He’s honestly a little impressed with her persistence.

Then he learns how to as well (because why not?) and they argue some more, and, at the end of it, he’s got a spiffy set of green and orange clothes and, he has to admit, he looks very good in them, especially with his favorite scimitar at his hip, and it’s Pu’ar’s turn to be smug.

And, in a way, that’s the moment they officially become Lord Yamcha and Pu’ar of the Thousand Forms – bandits of the Diablo Desert.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Pu’ar is the first person he openly talks to about families. Sitting in a cave, watching the dunes bake under the sun with a heat that wouldn’t bother him but which would kill her in an hour tops. He wraps his arms around his orange-clad knees (still an odd sight after seeing only yellow there for so long) and quietly admits that he wants one. He’s not sure he should, but… he’s seen the closeness of families, like his wolf packs but different. And he wants it, wants it but doesn’t know how to get it.

Pu’ar pats his cheek with a soft paw and says that of course any girl would be lucky to have him.

He turns a little pink when she says this and replies that that might not work out so well.

Pu’ar tilts her head to the side and asks if he prefers men (and it’s okay if he does (she doesn’t really understand the issue (it’s not a problem shape-shifters have))).

Honestly, he doesn’t really prefer one over the other (he’s a desert (deserts don’t really understand the issue, either)), but he knows that it has to be a male and a female for there to be children (desert nights can be very long (and very cold (and very educational))), and he’d like some of those, he thinks, so it’s got to be a woman, because he’s a man.

Pu’ar doesn’t see what the problem is.

At which point he turns red, buries his face in his knees, and confesses to something he’s known and hidden for a very, _very_ long time.

He’s scared of girls.

Because he’s a desert, but he’s also a man, and being around girls makes him… feel things, things he’s pretty sure have to do with being a man, but which he really has absolutely no context for, soft things that make him feel not at all like a desert. Men he can understand; he can see the beauty of clean lines and strong forms. He thinks he could be happy with another man. But he _wants_ to be with a woman, and women are beautiful but alien; they make him uncertain of himself in a way few things can, and that makes them terrifying. He’s okay if they’re very young, or older like Pai had been (or actually the moon like his faraway friend is, though he doesn’t mention that), but if they’re around the age where he could actually be in a relationship with them…? Terrifying.

Pu’ar pats his cheek again and says they’ll figure something out.

Lord Yamcha’s been trying to figure something out since humans still thought horses and camels were the only way to travel, but he doesn’t tell her that and, anyway, he appreciates the sentiment.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Sometimes, at night, when Pu’ar is asleep, he slips out of Kung Pao Rock (which is what Pu’ar named their home) wearing his old yellow clothes and lets the wind carry him across the dunes, or lies in his sands and lets them and the wind carry him stories and news of what has been happening since he last came and did this (he knows what happens within his borders, but it is a more of an instinctive knowledge than the active, detailed sort that the wind brings him (and he’s been paying more attention to Pu’ar lately)). And he runs with his wolves and plays with his faraway friend when she’s there, and he laughs in the starlight, because life is grand.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The rag-tag trio of travelers gives him pause.

He flees the little group after their first encounter because he hadn’t spotted the girl, hadn’t realized she was there (has been getting sloppy about paying attention to his greater self), and she’s gorgeous, even covered with dust and wearing dirty clothes, and it makes his stomach twist and his tongue knot to see her.

The next time he flees, it is because the monkey-tailed boy has knocked out one of his teeth. Pu’ar worries because she thinks it could hurt his looks, which he’s always been proud of (because the desert is wild and beautiful (and so is he (or ‘handsome,’ as Pu’ar says (he just goes with it)))), but that’s not the real reason. He can make himself a new tooth as easily as he once made himself a new arm, after all, the loss of a tooth is nothing. No, he ran because the fight happened _on his territory_ , but still the boy had _injured_ him, and that has never happened, _never_ , on his territory he has always been untouchable, unbeatable, but this boy has _hurt him_ and-

-and for a moment he had wanted nothing more than to call his winds and sand and swallow the boy alive in them, because what has happened _should not have happened_ , should have been impossible for any creature of this world to do, he knows this in his bones, in his secret caverns that sleep far beneath his surface. This boy defies the natural order and divine law, and he should be destroyed…

But he only thinks about this for a moment. It has long been his practice to approach humans on their terms, beat them on _their_ level, and he’s not going to stop because of some _child_ , no matter how strange. And… it has been a long time since he purposefully took a life, with his hands or with his greater self, since well before Pu’ar came and… she is a fine thief, but he doesn’t think death would sit well with her, no matter how bold her words on the subject.

He wants the dragon balls, wants the potential they offer to free him of his ridiculous fear of women. But brute strength is not the only solution to a problem. He smirks with Pu’ar as he goes to their stash of capsules and begins to make the appropriate selections. He has watched humanity for more years than he’s ever bothered to count, and he’s learned from them. Learned cunning.

Learned technology.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Following the monkey-tailed boy’s group off his territory is the most terrifying thing he’s ever done, because he couldn’t beat the boy on it – he won’t have a chance on unclaimed soil. But he wants what he wants, and what he wants, he takes. So he follows the small group, helping and hindering them in turns, shocked to actually _see_ some of the warriors he’s heard of – the horned Ox King, the great Turtle Master (who he has the vague feeling should be dead by now (how long do humans live again? (never mind, it’s not important))). Roshi’s strength is _amazing_ and, for the first time, he thinks wistfully that here might be a human who could teach him a thing or two about fighting. He follows the group still – Bulma, Son Goku, and Oolong, as he has learned to call them – follows them farther from his territory than he’s ever been before, and it makes him feel strange. For the first time ever he joins Pu’ar when she sleeps at night, and it is the oddest experience. He’s not sure if he dreams or not, but he sees his territory as he slumbers, and wakes up missing it in a way he never has before.

But still he follows Son Goku (and the beautiful Bulma), he even joins their group and thus he and Pu’ar are captured along with them by Pilaf and his minions, and eventually trapped in the solar oven.

As they sit, waiting for the dawn and death, he watches Pu’ar, who watches the moon (his faraway friend is not visible to him tonight, as she sometimes isn’t (he doubts she could help even if she was)), and he… regrets. He sees Pu’ar, so kind and wiser than she knows and so very, very brave, and he regrets dragging her with him. For while he doesn’t know what tomorrow holds for him, he doubts it will be death – he is Lord Yamcha of the Diablo Desert, after all, and heat has never been his enemy, but Pu’ar… she will likely die. And it will be a loss when she does, the world will be an emptier place for her absence. The deaths of Son Goku and Bulma will have similar effects, he thinks. Oolong…

Oolong used to make Pu’ar cry. If he died in Lord Yamcha’s territory, he’d throw the pig’s bones across his border.

But then Goku saves them from the oven and Lord Yamcha himself saves them from the transformed Goku and Oolong technically saved the world, but Lord Yamcha doesn’t really care about that because he’s a desert – what does he care for the rest of the world, he’s already got the best bit for his territory. He’s disappointed to lose the chance to cure his crippling shyness, but Pu’ar is alive, they all are, and that means he just needs to take the dragon radar and wait a bit – a year is nothing to him (though the years have seemed to pass a little slower since Pu’ar came (or maybe he’s just paying more attention now)).

Then it turns out he doesn’t need the dragon balls, because somewhere along the line he stopped being afraid of Bulma without noticing, and she invites him to come back to the city with her. He’d been planning to return to his territory after this, but he decides he can wait awhile to do so. He’s wanted a family for a long time and, now that he might have a chance at one, he’s taking it, like he takes everything he wants.

After all, where’s the harm?

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Bulma says he’s not allowed to call himself ‘Lord Yamcha’ in the city, because if people ask why he does and he tells them he used to be a bandit, they’ll lock him up forever. And this is Bulma’s territory, not his, he’s never been to a city before and doesn’t know the rules (and ‘forever’ sounds a little daunting, even to him). So he goes along with it. The fact that Pu’ar continues to call him Lord Yamcha anyway makes it easier.

Bulma’s horrified when she finds out he’s never been to school, and signs him up to take courses with her when it starts again. He’s always liked learning, so he’s not too upset with it, even when she spells his name ‘lonely soul’ rather than ‘simple pleasures’ as he prefers (she says it’s more romantic like this (he thinks the other way looks nicer but he allows it (he is still Lord of the Desert, after all (and Lords are gracious))))).

He likes being with Bulma – she burns like the sun, and she’s even more interested in technology than he is (but not fighting, sadly (she does like to watch him train, though (especially if he takes his shirt off))). He tells her stories about his territory and she, in turn, tells him stories about West City. They sit close and he feels those odd, soft feelings inside, but for some reason they don’t feel so uncomfortable anymore. They laugh and kiss and explore the concept of being in love with each other (a thing neither of them has ever done before now). She grumbles at him for how he always gets sand everywhere, seriously, where does he even _find_ all this sand in Capsule Corp, but she smiles when she sees him in the kitchen with her mother, swapping recipes and helping to cook and already fast friends.

It’s not the desert, but the city isn’t too bad, and Pu’ar likes it here, so slowly he adjusts and begins to grow comfortable in this strange, new environment. He’s given a room of his own in Capsule Corp, on the ground floor, not too far from Bulma’s bedroom (well, her main bedroom (the house is large enough that she has several, and moves between them at her pleasure)), and is told he can decorate it however he likes. It’s a little strange, really – the walls are a different texture than even those of the houses in the villages near Diablo, and painted a pale, pleasant shade of blue. He’s never thought about putting paint on walls before – it’s an interesting concept. For the moment he leaves it as it is, simply setting the sandy-yellow case he uses to carry his capsules on the bedside table.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

School is… confusing. It turns out that, while he’s comfortable around Bulma, other girls… not so much. It’s not crippling anymore, but he’s still painfully shy around them, and it doesn’t help that Bulma seems oddly convinced that he’s going to abandon her for one of them. And there’s so much he doesn’t know. When he asks Bulma about things she throws her hands in the air and demands to know how he made it to sixteen not knowing _anything_ about politics or world history or science (his protest that he knows pretty much everything important about deserts is met with a withering look), and he shrugs, unable to explain himself in a way she’ll understand.

One time she finds him lying in the yard, staring at the sky. When she asks him what he’s doing, he says he’d thought listening to the wind might help him with his homework. She laughs and messes with his newly-short hair (cut at her request), and he laughs with her as he follows her inside to look on the computer instead. It had been a silly idea.

After all, whoever heard of learning things from the wind?

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He’s looking forward to his first winter.

Bulma blinks when he tells her this. “You’ve never seen winter before?”

He laughs at her expression. “Nah, I’ve always lived around Diablo.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip and looks embarrassed, “I guess I’ve never really asked you about your past, have I? That was rude of me.”

He laughs again and waves her off. “There’s not much to tell, really. I don’t remember my parents; I just wandered from village to village, learning bits and pieces – how to fight, how to cook, that kind of thing. I turned to banditry to support myself, and then Pu’ar as well. You should be thanking her, really.”

“I should?” Bulma asks, eyes looking oddly wet for some reason.

“Yeah,” he grins, then cups his hand around his mouth like he’s sharing a secret, “You’d have had to do even more catch-up work with me if it weren’t for her – Pu’ar’s the one who taught me to read and write.”

Bulma stares at him after he says that, and his smile falters a little. He’d thought she’d laugh or roll her eyes. Instead she looks… stricken. Finally she steps forward and holds onto him, hard, crying and apologizing and saying she didn’t know…

He’s confused by her reaction, but he puts his arms around her and kisses the top of her head and tells her that it’s okay, it’s fine, really, he’s had a good life so far and it’s only getting better lately. He’s really looking forward to seeing winter for the first time with her.

She laughs through her tears and says that she hopes he enjoys it. Bulma doesn’t tease or yell at him as much for not knowing things after that, and she doesn’t ask about his past again, for which he’s grateful. Because, honestly? It’s all pretty blurry before the bit where Pu’ar showed up…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Winter arrives.

He hates the cold he hates the cold he hates the cold he hates the cold-

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He hides in the atrium, where it’s always warm, for as much of the winter as he can, and wears layers and layers of clothes when he has to go outside. Bulma teases him and he growls at her (quite literally, like the wolves he watched when he was younger and based the Wolf Fang on), because he’s boasted about how well he can handle the cold (the desert at night is nothing like the oven it is during the day), but this isn’t cold, this is _insanity_. She swats him when he growls, saying not to act like a savage, and muses that he must have some werewolf in him to sound that lupine without any other beast folk features, but she’s happy enough to curl up with him when he makes cocoa and a fire.

Those moments, with Pu’ar sleeping on his shoulder and Bulma snuggled up next to him working on blueprints, with Dr. Briefs and Bunny (as she insists he call her) knitting the most extraordinary things together (Bulma had been embarrassed the first time her father whipped out his knitting needles in front of Yamcha (neither man understood what the issue was)), watching the fire dance… Those moments, he knows he was right.

It _is_ good to have a family.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Pu’ar frowns at him sometimes, but just shakes her head when he asks what’s wrong. She says he’s… different, but can’t explain how. Finally they go to ask Bulma about it. Her first response is a flippant, “He’s stopped trailing sand everywhere, thank Kami!”

But Yamcha persists (because Pu’ar is _worried_ (and Pu’ar shouldn’t have to worry (not about him))), so the young woman finally closes the program she’s working on and spins in her chair to look him over critically. Then she rolls her eyes and snorts.

“You’re _taller_ , genius – you’ve grown, like, two inches or something and your face is getting a little thinner. It’s called _puberty_. Seriously, how do you miss these things?”

And really, the only possible response to _that_ is to scoop Bulma up with a playful snarl, sling her over one shoulder, and spin around and around while she shrieks and pounds his back with her fists until they’re both laughing and dizzy. He falls down and she lands on top of him and they kiss. Because _of course_ he’s growing, he should have thought of that himself (and, on a side note, this probably also explains the mystery of why his clothes have been feeling a little tight lately).

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Sometimes he doodles on the edge of his homework, odd scribbles that look a bit like writing, only they aren’t any writing he knows, and they don’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what he thinks until Bunny looks over his shoulder one day and asks him if the old writing style is in vogue again. When he asks what she’s taking about, she points to the doodle on the margin of his math assignment (spawned by problem number fifteen (why do people even _need_ math like this, anyway (a little voice in his head laughs at the foolishness of mortals (but it’s rarely a helpful voice, so he ignores it))))).

“This one means ‘princess,’” Bunny says, her eternal smile becoming reminiscent, “Are you thinking about Bulma again? Do you need some condoms or anything?”

He says no on both accounts, that he didn’t know the symbol meant anything at all, he just saw it and the others somewhere when he was younger and they stuck in his head for some reason. She shows him some samplers she embroidered with phrases in the old writing style when she was younger.

“It was ever so popular for awhile when I was a girl,” she titters, “But it’s very complicated, so it fell out of fashion again. I’ve forgotten most of it myself.”

She still has her old volumes on the subject, though (the Briefs family have a tendency towards pack-rattery), and she gladly gives them to him when he asks. Yamcha studies the books eagerly – he doesn’t know why, but this feels like something he’s wanted to know for a long time. He even manages to turn it into a project for history class and gets a good grade (for once (he just… doesn’t _learn_ well in classrooms (it feels like there should be an easier way (a better way (a way he used to know…))))). Bulma is pleased about his new interest and the good grade, even if she doesn’t understand why he likes the subject so much.

“At least it’s something other than that Budokai nonsense,” she grumbles jokingly.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He’d heard about the Budokai… somewhere, once, he can’t remember exactly (but then, there’s lots of things he can’t remember exactly (so he doesn’t let it bother him)). However it feels like he’s been researching great martial artists and legendary weapons forever, and when one of the members of the dojo he visits mentions that the Tenkaichi Budokai is coming up this summer, Yamcha decides that this is a great opportunity and that he’s going to enter it, too. He can beat the city fighters easily and, while he doesn’t want to necessarily return to it, he misses the battles that came with his life as a bandit. And every time he thinks about fighting alongside those famous fighters, testing his strength against theirs, his heart races.

(And sometimes his spine crawls, and he sees an arm that looks like his lying on a counter, bleeding (but that makes no sense (he has both his arms (so he ignores it))).

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He finishes his first year of school a bit below average – which is actually pretty good, considering that he’s never attended before – and he goes off on a training journey to prepare for the Budokai as soon as it does.

“But _why_ do you have to go?” Bulma grumbles, “You can train here just fine – you have been all year!”

“Because I’m going up against champions, so I’ll need to really focus,” he says, giving her a warm kiss, “And there’s too many distractions here – especially this one pretty one with blue hair.”

And she’s still not thrilled, but she’s also flattered enough that she stops complaining, watching as he rubs Pu’ar’s head and asks her to make sure Bulma remembers to eat (honestly he’s a little worried that he’s going to come back and find out that they’ve both starved to death while he was gone).

“You’re going to the desert, right?” Bulma smirks a little at his nod, “Don’t tell me, let me guess – Diablo?”

“Nah, the Gibo.” He raises a questioning eyebrow at her, “Why did you think I’d go to Diablo?”

She shrugs. “You were always talking about taking me there for a visit when you first got here, I assumed you’d take this chance to go back.”

He snorts. “I’m a wanted bandit in that area, remember? Besides, Gibo’s closer to where they’ll hold the tournament.”

He takes an airbike Bulma designed and he helped with (he might not be a genius, but he can use a wrench as well as anyone (and he has a knack for spotting places grit or sand could get in and gum up the works)). It’s a beautiful machine, a Flying Squirrel model that switches between the road and the air like a dream, so smooth that he can almost imagine he’s riding the wind.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It feels good to be in the desert again – the familiar sensation of sand underfoot _alone_ seems to make him feel stronger. He encapsulates the bike, and, great as it is, he doesn’t take it out again for the entire time he’s there. Gibo’s a beautiful place, with red-brown sands and very orange rock formations, and it seems a waste to speed past it on a bike, so Yamcha hikes until he finds a spring in the rocks (he’s pleased to see he hasn’t forgotten how to survive out here), then sets up camp nearby, though not so close that he’ll scare away any animals that depend on it as well.

He trains harder than he ever remembers training before, works on his old forms, perfects them, develops some new ones. He lives on rabbits and lizards and the succulents that grow amongst the rocks, though it doesn’t take much food to satisfy him out here. He doesn’t really get thirsty (never particularly has), but he makes sure to drink frequently anyway (at least three or four times a day (that’s enough, right? (it must be, otherwise he’d be dead))).

Sometimes he sings to the moon, like he did in Diablo. After a little trial and error, Pu’ar had joined him in his songs, and they’d sung together from atop Kung Pao Rock (never in the dunes, though (even if he remembers walking them at night himself sometimes (he wonders why he never took Pu’ar with him when he went, and resolves that he’ll take her when he goes back (her and Bulma both)))). They’d tried to keep up this practice a grand total of _once_ on the roof of Capsule Corp – it had resulted in Bulma banging open the trap door next to them in her nightshirt and demanding to know if they were trying to wake the entire neighborhood, give her a heart attack, or both. There had followed an argument (discussion (argument)), which had in turn led to Bulma’s conclusion that while Yamcha _himself_ is not a werebeast, one of his direct ancestors almost certainly was, because she had thought there was an honest-to-god pair of _wolves_ on the roof. In the end she’d wound up staying with them, teaching them what constellations could be picked out in the city lights.

There’s more stars in the desert than in the city he notes, as he stares at the night sky in his camp, and it’s good to sing again.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It’s disorienting to be out in the wider world once more after the solitude of the desert. All the sights and sounds make him hungrier than he’s been since he got there, not to mention aware of how… unkempt he’s gotten during his training ( _“You’re a scruffy one, aren’t you?”_ (what? (nothing…))). He registers at the Budokai a few days early and gets assigned one of the small rooms provided for contestants who have come far and have nowhere else to stay, then goes to get a shower and a haircut so he’ll look neat when Bulma gets there.

On the day of the tournament he rises early and puts on his old bandit uniform (let out at the seams a bit so it still fits properly), running a fond hand over the character on the chest (he likes the elegance of the shape, and the mental image of its reading). He and Pu’ar had worked so hard to design and make these uniforms, so he’s decided they will be his gi, the only changes to the overall outfit being that he leaves his sword stowed (because no weapons allowed) and adds a white headband (he doesn’t sweat much and his hair’s too short to get in his eyes, but it looks good).

He’s surprised to see Goku there, less that Goku doesn’t recognize him (he looks very different with short hair, no matter how distinctive his clothes, and the boy hadn’t known him for very long), and a pleasure to meet Krillin, the young monk Goku has befriended. Yamcha’s impressed to hear that they’ve both been training with Muten Roshi himself, and delighted when they all make it to the finals – Goku had been a strong fighter last time they met, and it would be exciting to get to trade blows with the boy in the ring.

It’s not to be, though. Yamcha doesn’t make it beyond the quarter-finals, beaten by the mysterious Jackie Chun. He can’t help but be disappointed by this, for more than one reason – not only will he not get to fight Goku again, but he’s lost to someone he’s never heard of before, when he knows so many names in this tournament (and when he’d been so certain he’d win). For awhile he thinks his pride might be assuaged, because it looks like Jackie Chun might actually be Muten Roshi in disguise, but Yamcha finally has to concede that he isn’t (or that, at the very least, that he will never be able to _prove_ it’s him (which he knows is the same thing in the eyes of the world)).

Still, the ex-bandit thinks, it could have been worse.

He could have had to fight Ran Fan.

Not only would that have been the most _humiliating_ defeat in the history of the world, Bulma would have murdered him afterwards for getting that intimate with such a pretty lady (even if said intimacy would have involved Ran Fan putting her knee in his kidneys (he doesn’t understand why Bulma seems so scared that he’ll leave her, he really doesn’t (it’s like she doesn’t see how hard it is for him to even _talk_ to other girls (or how much he loves her)))). As it is, he feels for Namu, he really does.

And it’s amazing to see Goku and Chun fight full-out, it really is… right up until the moon comes out.

Then it turns into a nightmare.

Goku once again becomes an ape-monster, Yamcha is unable to prevent Chun from firing what is sure to be a killing blast at the transformed boy, in spite of his best efforts, and then-

-then Chun destroys the moon.

It feels like something shatters inside of him as well, and he doesn’t know why. And even though he’s delighted, _thrilled_ , that Goku’s okay, that piece of Yamcha stays shattered, even as they celebrate Goku coming in second and have a feast, and Bulma invites everyone back to her place afterwards for a few days, because her parents are having some sort of party soon and she wants them all to attend, and they head back to Capsule Corp en masse, Yamcha only half-sees all of it.

The next night he sits on the roof of Capsule Corp by himself, rubbing grit from his eyes (which is as close as he can ever remember coming to crying), and desperately wondering why it feels like he’s just lost a dear friend. He puts his books on the old writing system away the next day. When Bulma asks him why, he says he’s lost interest.

She doesn’t understand (and how could she, when he himself doesn’t?) but she leans on his shoulder and runs her fingers over his hair, making soothing noises. For once he doesn’t try and fuss about being a man and not needing this sort of thing, instead letting his head drop on her shoulder and accepting the offered support.

“Come on,” she says quietly after some time has passed, “Come help Mom figure out the menu for the party – she’ll love having someone to chat about it with, and you know it’ll make you feel better.”

He nods, but still waits a little longer before standing to carry out her suggestion. Bulma accompanies him down the hall and he glances at her, wanting to talk but not sure how exactly, so instead he brings up something he’s been thinking about vaguely since she brought them all home. “I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear for a party, not a big one. I don’t think any of the others do, either.”

Bulma waves a dismissive hand, “You think that hadn’t occurred to me? I just need everyone’s measurements, then you can focus on the menu and leave the clothes to me.”

And it’s a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest the moon has left, so Yamcha lets Bulma measure him and take care of things. Krillin’s excited to be staying in such a big house in the city, but also mildly terrified because, in his own way, he’s as much of a country boy as Yamcha is, so the ex-bandit makes an effort to show him around (including the places you can go when the scent and the noise and the _presence_ of the city gets to be too much). Goku seems comfortable wherever he goes, and Roshi…

Roshi gets on with the elder Briefs much too well. Because Dr. Briefs enjoys his magazines, and Bunny enjoys her eye candy (not to mention the fact that she can’t seem to get offended to save her life), and they’re all incredibly comfortable discussing these topics. In fact, Yamcha accidentally walks in on the three of them having one such conversation, turns around, and walks right back out.

There are things he simply doesn’t need to know.

Personally, though, Yamcha’s a little nervous about the party, the ‘Cross Ball,’ as Bulma calls it. He’s never been to a fancy social event before, and has no idea how to act.

“Don’t worry,” Bulma soothes, running her hand through his short hair again (he misses having it long, though the attention still feels good), “The Cross Ball is something Mom and Dad have been throwing every few years forever. It’s a formal event, but not _formal_ formal. Everything’s a bit more… loose. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The day of the ball comes.

Yamcha stares at his bed.

There’s a dress on it.

It’s dark pink, with a low, square collar and a long full skirt, and a ruffled, lighter pink shirt obviously meant to be worn beneath it.

It also looks like it’s in his size.

He encounters Krillin in the hallway, a similarly horrified expression on the younger boy’s face, and they knock on Bulma’s door together.

“What’s with the dresses?” Krillin asks without preamble.

Bulma blinks at him. “Those are your clothes for tonight. I had them dropped off in your rooms.”

“…but we’re boys,” Krillin says uncertainly.

The blue-haired scientist rolls her eyes, “Well _duh_ , of course you are. Honestly, why else would I have gotten you dresses for the Cross Dress Ball?”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It turns out the entire thing is Bunny’s fault. She’d had the idea years ago, Dr. Briefs had indulged her, and, for Kami knew what reason, it had caught on.

So now Yamcha’s feeling ridiculous in the pink dress, Krillin’s in a ruffly orange frock with a matching bow tied around his head, looking quietly mortified, and Goku is unbothered in an orange blouse and red skirt with a little white apron. He’s not thrilled with the outfit, but he’s having fun anyway, running around with his tail waving cheerfully behind him and getting fed horderves by cooing ladies in suits. Roshi looks eerily calm in a lacy black thing trimmed with pink ribbons (he claims it’s based on one of the traditional uniforms of the Turtle School), and is chatting away with Dr. Briefs and Bunny (who are respectively decked in an equally lacy number in aqua and a navy three-piece). Pu’ar has on a little bow tie and doesn’t really see what the joke/issue is (she’s a shape shifter (she doesn’t always really ‘get’ gender stuff)). And Bulma…

Yamcha swallows.

Bulma’s in a pure white three-piece tuxedo with a matching top hat and she looks _fabulous_. Yamcha swallows again, and he’s pretty sure his face matches his dress as she swaggers up to him, grinning.

“Well don’t you look absolutely adorable!”

“Bulma…” he grumbles, looking away, not sure if he should be embarrassed or pleased (this entire situation is confusing).

“Oh hush,” she taps him on the nose, “It’s not so bad, is it? I got you something simple that you can move in – no tight shoulders or fitted skirts or anything. It’s not so bad, right?”

And, deep in her eyes – so deep he almost misses it – there’s a hint of concern, the unasked question of ‘have I crossed a line?’ And he sighs and relents because, once he gets past the embarrassment, no, it’s not so bad, a bit like wearing hakama (which he vaguely remembers doing at one point, when he was younger). Not something he’ll necessarily seek out on his own again, but not really worth making a fuss over, not when everyone seems so okay and comfortable. Besides, regardless of anything else, Bulma really _does_ look fabulous. So he sighs and gives her a kiss and asks her to show him how to dance.

And, once he’s stopped taking himself so seriously and listening to the little voices saying that he’s supposed to be embarrassed for dressing like this, the Cross Ball is a lot of fun, because _no one_ is taking themselves too seriously tonight, and they don’t yell at him or get upset if he slips up or blushes and stammers when confronted with a pretty lady (a few even laugh and slap him on the back in a friendly manner, commending him for ‘playing the part’).

Yamcha dances with Bulma, and with Bunny, and punches Roshi when the old pervert gets drunk and flips Yamcha’s skirt (because he apparently likes the ‘innocent country girl’ dress with the ‘tomboyish’ haircut), and Bunny gets a picture of them. Krillin ends up talking with some other kids who have been respectively brought and dragged to the party with their parents and tears his dress when they all escape to the atrium to look at the dinosaurs and climb trees. Goku continues to be fed and cooed at and has a wonderful time (more due to the feeding than the cooing), eventually falling asleep in a corner, tail curled around his arm and probably a good third of the buffet in his stomach.

It’s a great party and, for a little while at least, Yamcha’s able to forget the ache in his chest over the lack of moonlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories are such a good toy, yes? Doesn’t matter _what_ you can do if you don’t know you can do it…
> 
> Diablo doesn’t consider adoption as an option because he doesn’t really know about it at that point – his knowledge of humans is horrendously patchy, even though he’s been watching them for a few thousand years now. That sort of thing happens when you’ve also been avoiding attractive women of marriageable age for approximately the same amount of time, makes it hard to linger and pick up more than the basics.
> 
> Goku is able to injure Diablo on his territory in this manner (in this, at least), because he is technically not ‘of’ Earth, so its divine laws don’t entirely apply to him – some do, others don’t. This also applies to any alien of sufficient strength who comes to Earth. King Piccolo, Piccolo, and Kami are different because they have woven themselves into the divine hierarchy and structure of Earth in various ways.
> 
> I love how names work in Japanese, and how the same name can have a different meaning depending on which kanji it’s spelled with. ‘Yamcha’ is spelt with katakana in the original manga, but I’m taking liberties here, and will do so with any similar pun-ish names I decide to give the meanings of in this fic. Any accuracy for what the kanji needed to spell such names would mean is entirely coincidental, I’m using poetic license for this. If I was going off of real kanji meanings (and keep in mind here that I’m working with an online pronunciation dictionary here, I did my best), I would probably spell it 夜夢茶, which can be pronounced ‘yamucha’ and translates as ‘night dream tea,’ to the best of my (limited) understanding. Which is actually a very cool and poetic name meaning, but it doesn’t work as well for my story. Ah well, perhaps another time. ;) 
> 
> Generally we associate racing hearts with excitement and anticipation, but the heart also speeds up like that due to fear, and they can be easy emotions to muddle up, so I decided to play with this a little. After all, Diablo learned about many of those warriors and weapons because they could be potentially dangerous to him. Also, don’t try and emulate Yamcha when it comes to desert survival, you will die.
> 
> …what? Never said he was going to normal …
> 
> While I took a more serious perspective of it for this story, Goku’s battle with Roshi/Jackie Chun is actually really funny, so definitely take a look if you haven’t seen/read it already!
> 
> Ah, the Cross Dress Ball – an event inspired by the spirit of Carnival, la Fete de Fous, Mardi Gras, and all other annual events that celebrate turning certain societal conventions on their ear for a bit in the name of having fun. Oh, and also by a pair of end-credits screenshots from Dragon Ball. Because, much as I am a hearty supporter of such things, I’m not the one to first put Yamcha in that dress or Bulma in that tux. ;) It’s also a very slight deviation in canon – technically Goku takes off right after the first Budokai to find his grandpa’s dragon ball, but I think the timeline can stand being put on hold for a week or two.
> 
> 楽 – ‘raku,’ is the character on Yamcha’s bandit tunic, and the more I learn about it, the more I love it for him. The primary definitions are comfort or ease, but I was surprised to find the secondary definitions of ‘music’ and ‘fun’ when I looked it up. As for the ‘reading,’ which is to say the pictogram reading of it, according to my research it is “a white bird flapping its wings on top of a tree, having fun.” Which is just… oh gods, that’s a great mental image, I need to draw ten million pictures of Yamcha in white with wings now, having fun at the top of a tree.


	3. Waiting

While Yamcha’s not fond of it, school is a welcome distraction after the… events of the last match of the Budokai, right up to the point where Bulma decides to mention that he’d been one of the competitors, modestly admitting her boyfriend had made the final eight.

He’s busy giving her a stunned look (because, up until now, she’s been berating him for not doing better (Bulma is confusing (all females are confusing (Pu’ar is the only sane one (and maybe Bunny (…nnnope, just Pu’ar)))))), so he doesn’t see the world change.

Apparently, many high school girls in West City find martial artists ‘dead sexy,’ especially handsome ones like him.

Apparently, many high school boys don’t like it when one guy hogs all the girls’ attention, but aren’t brave enough to do anything about it.

So now he has a fan club of girls (and some boys), who follow him around or bat their eyelashes at him or try to stroke his arm. Now none of the boys in school or men in the nearby dojos (word seems to have gotten out) will spar with him.

“I only made the quarter-finals!” he protests.

“So impressive,” the fan club and dojo members say, “To do so at such a young age.”

“The runner-up was only twelve,” he desperately points out.

They fail to stop being impressed or to start sparring, and Bulma gets mad at him over his newly increased popularity with the other girls.

“They won’t stop,” he says, and if he ever cried (if he could cry (what? (nothing))), he’d be doing so right now, from sheer frustration.

“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,” she snaps.

“But I _don’t_ enjoy is,” he responds, and he doesn’t – girls still make him extremely nervous for the most part, and all this unwanted attention isn’t helping him to get over this problem at all – if anything, it’s making it _worse_.

“A likely story,” Bulma huffs before spinning on her heel and stalking off, and Yamcha sighs and wishes for the millionth time that Dr. Briefs wasn’t quite so… _honest_ about certain magazines he enjoys, because between them and Oolong and Roshi, Bulma seems to have developed some pretty strong prejudices against men. The ex-bandit doesn’t think he’s ever been so miserable, and is pretty sure that there’s no way this can possibly get any worse.

Then Bulma leaves.

Apparently Goku came by, hunting dragon balls again, and Bulma went off with him. She didn’t wait to ask Yamcha if he wanted to come too, or even let him say ‘hi’ to the boy he so admires.

It hurts.

And worse, now he has absolutely _no_ buffer from anyone at school, and half his fans are convinced that all this means that Bulma’s dumped him, which means he’s available, which means he _obviously_ wants to date one of them.

He’s seriously considering grabbing his stuff, grabbing Pu’ar, and giving civilization the finger when the phone call comes – Goku’s in trouble and he needs back-up.

Yamcha says something flippant about all the men in the city being cowards and being excited for some proper fighting again. And it’s true, but… he also wants to see Bulma, ask her why she went without him.

Ask why she won’t trust him.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He doesn’t end up asking any of these things, because the ‘minor trouble’ Goku has found is, in fact, the _entire Red Ribbon Army_. Which… really is actually kinda of exciting, to be honest, this is the first decent challenge he’s heard of in ages. Except Goku has single-handedly defeated the entire army by the time Yamcha, Bulma, Krillin, and some woman called Lunch show up (it had taken a lot of time for him to pick the rest of the group up where they were stranded on Kame Island).

Yamcha’s feeling a little out-classed as a human being at this moment, let alone as a martial artist. Not so long ago he and Goku were nearly equals, but now…

Before it can really sink in, though, they’re off in a rush to meet with Roshi’s sister, Baba the All-Seeing Crone, and his pride is soothed with he beats the Invisible Man (albeit with a little help, but he would have managed fine on his own if Baba hadn’t started singing to cover up to sound of his opponent’s movements (he’s always had excellent hearing)). Only then…

It’s going to be a long time before he forgets his fight with the Mummy, forgets the feel of that hand on his throat, the only thing preventing him from falling into the deadly acid below. He’s been defeated before, yes, but this… never has he been forced to _yield_ before, to stop while there is still strength left in his body, and it stings far worse than Bulma yelling at him for ‘giving up like a coward.’

It’s not a total loss, though. Goku’s reunion with his Grandpa Gohan, when he’s revealed to be Ghost, the fifth and final fighter of Baba’s group… it’s worth some wounded pride to see the joy on the young boy’s face, the utter delight at seeing his grandfather one last time. And, as a bonus, Roshi says he’ll take Yamcha on as a student (apparently he’d been impressed with Yamcha’s display at the Budokai and, to Yamcha’s surprise, with his battles today as well). They wave good-bye to Goku again as the boy sets off with the Indian boy Upa to retrieve the final dragon ball and fulfill his promise to bring Upa’s father back to life with it, and then it’s time to move on.

The run to Kame House is an unexpected labor, but, as Roshi and Baba both said, it’s good training. Yamcha halts after the first mile to take Bulma on his back (she’s a scientist, not a warrior (it’s not fair – it’s _cruel_ to force her to try and undertake a task like this)). She climbs on gratefully, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning in close. A few miles further and she asks if he needs a rest, and he laughs and says she’d have to weigh at least twice what she does not to make him even notice (that’s not quite true, but she _does_ feel very light – Yamcha’s not in Goku’s league (yet), but he’s no slouch). A few miles after that, she asks why he stays with her, when she’s so mean to him sometimes. He says it’s because he loves her, and she quietly (so quietly) apologizes for not waiting for him when Goku came. He smiles over his shoulder at her, enjoying her warm presence on his back and the knowledge that he’s one of the very few men in the world she trusts to carry her, to touch her, like this without taking advantage. Since she started to become a woman she’s been using her body, her looks, as a tool, a weapon, to get what she wants, to take advantage, and it’s worked far too often to not have left a certain impression on her.

With Yamcha, though, she doesn’t have to pose. He doesn’t care that she’s heiress to one of the wealthiest, most powerful companies in the world, isn’t intimidated by her genius, feels no need to try and prove he’s better than her. With him, she can relax, be herself. And she loves him for it…

All this she whispers into his hair as they run, knowing he’ll hear her (since she’s seen first-hand how sharp his ears can be just now), and he finds a few extra miles in himself as a result.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The next almost-three years are the best Yamcha remembers. He trains with Roshi, and it turns out the old man doesn’t just believe in strong bodies but strong minds as well. Thus his lessons include some low-level algebra, general geography and world history, and basic science. The old man offers to include literature too, but Yamcha takes one look at the book he’s just been handed and hands it back, demanding to know if Roshi remembers _who_ , exactly, Yamcha is dating and if the old man is _trying_ to get him murdered in his sleep (and also he’s not interested, thanks).

‘Literature’ aside, though, the lessons are all a lot more interesting than the teachers at school had made it sound, and Yamcha finds it easier to learn under the palms of Kame House than he ever did in the high school classrooms. They’re not on Roshi’s favorite island – the turtle master explains that he always teaches on the larger island he’s taken them to (and, once he learns what the training consists of, Yamcha understands why (and also envies Krillin his short legs for the first time ever, because plowing fields by hand (literally) is even harder when you have to crouch with your knees around your ears to do so)).

They’re still on the beach, though, and it’s an interesting experience for Yamcha – he’s never really seen so much sand together with so much water before, it’s very exotic, much like West City, with its utter lack of sand, had been. Yamcha’s not much for swimming (though he’s had to learn how to for Roshi’s training), but he does like to sit on the edge of the tide line and watch the waves come and lap at his feet, scooching slowly backwards as they come in or watching them gently pull away from him as they go out. Roshi yells at him for sitting on the beach, in the sun, in the middle of the day during the hour’s rest after lunch (something about ‘sun stroke’), but Yamcha laughs and waves him off, because he’s a desert boy, he’s used to the sun, and he’s pretty sure Roshi finds it highly obnoxious when Yamcha’s the one who’s right in this instance.

Krillin is also there sometimes, which is great because it gives them both someone to spar against, though he’s surprised that the boy joins him on the construction site which is both part of Yamcha’s training and the first legitimate job he’s ever had. When he asks about it, the short boy just shrugs and says he enjoys it. “Didn’t you work as a kid?” he asks as they haul bags of cement across the site.

Yamcha adjusts the strap of the weighted shell he’s wearing. “I don’t remember ever being a kid.” He says it casually, doesn’t realize there’s anything wrong with what he’s said until he notices that Krillin had stopped a few steps ago and is now giving him a shocked look. He replays what he’s just said in his head, replays it again considering how Bulma would probably react to it, realizes how it sounds, and gives an embarrassed laugh. “No, not like that. I just… it’s kinda blurry, you know?”

Krillin shakes his head. “What do you remember?” he asks, tone laced with equal concern and curiosity.

So Yamcha tells him. About growing up in the desert, running wild and learning by watching the animals and the travelers. About moving from town to town so people wouldn’t notice anything strange about him or try to catch him. About living by his fists and his wits and his blades, and the old woman who taught him to cook, who is probably the closest he’s ever had to a mother. About the dunes under the moonlight and the wind in the rocks, the Wandering Oasis that drifts over the sands like a leaf in a pond, and the infamous Dancing Point, so named for how it makes the needle of any compass that enters it spin round and round in a deadly dance. About the Whispering Rocks that sing when the wind blows through them, and the wolves that sing to the moon, and the little blue-grey cat that taught him to read…

And they could have been sad stories, he’s alone in most of them, no real friends or family, but even with their blurry edges they’re lodged in his heart with such fondness, such pride, such joy… he can’t think of a better way or place to have grown up, he really can’t.

Krillin, in turn, tells him about Orin temple. His original family had been very large and very poor and hadn’t been able to keep him. They’d given him to the temple because such boys got an education and had a secure future – even the boys who choose to leave get a certain amount of support in the form of friends of the temple who are willing to take on a young monk who wants to learn a trade, because they’re known for their dedication and strength. And if the wider world didn’t happen to work out, well, there was always the temple waiting for you. And, while some of the older boys picked on him and others teased him for his looks, Krillin still had friends there, and he’s visited them a few times. The boy admits that he wasn’t always happy at Orin, not the way Yamcha was in Diablo, but he’s mostly glad that that’s where he grew up, because he doubts he would have ever gotten to where he is now as a poor farmer’s son. And his life now? It’s pretty awesome.

Yamcha says Krillin’s pretty smart for fourteen, and the boy blushes. He also points out that Krillin actually has an advantage over all of them when it comes to the no nose thing.

“I’m pretty sure that was only useful for Bacterian,” Krillin says flatly, “Most fighters don’t try to stink you to death.”

“Nah, not that,” Yamcha waves him off casually as they do their milk run (literally, because _giant carnivorous dinosaur_ (it’s getting easier, Roshi’s probably going to increase his weights again soon)), “If you break a guy’s nose the right way, the bone’ll go straight up into his brain and kill him stone dead.”

Krillin stares at him slack-jawed. “ _Seriously_?!?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it done – crackle snap dead.” He doesn’t mention that he also knows how to do it himself (or that he can’t remember how he learned (it’s not as if Krillin really needs to know these things anyway…)).

“Wow,” Krillin says quietly, and from the corner of his eye Yamcha catches the boy rubbing the middle of his face. Krillin walks a little straighter after that.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Oolong is also living with Roshi now, something Yamcha is less happy to discover. Pu’ar might not be scared of the little pig anymore, but Yamcha knows from her stories just how much Oolong used to pick on his friend. So he has a quiet conversation about Oolong’s past behavior with the pig, and about what Yamcha will do to him if he ever, _ever_ manages to make Pu’ar cry again (admittedly a much harder feat these days (something he ‘forgets’ to tell Oolong (his memory _is_ pretty blurry at times, after all))).

They mostly avoid each other after that, to everyone’s satisfaction.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

There’s one other person living at Kame House these days, and that’s a young woman called Lunch who has a… rather unique personality. Yamcha remembers her from the brief mission against the Red Ribbon Army, and that helps his nerves a little, but she’s still a girl his age and pretty, and with the threat of an upcoming battle no longer there to ground him, he’s still horribly shy around her at first.

However Lunch doesn’t crawl all over him or coo at him or even seem to notice he’s male. She treats him with polite friendliness when her hair is black and as a possible accomplice when it’s blonde. It’s… refreshing. And eventually he finds himself able to relax around her and treat Lunch like she’s just another person, even going so far as to become slightly friends.

The best bit of all is that, for whatever reason, the jealousy Bulma usually displays when he’s around other girls just isn’t triggered by Lunch. She sees the two of them interacting and she’s just… fine. Sometimes she even joins in the conversations.

Speaking of Bulma, she and Pu’ar both visit from time to time – sometimes separately, sometimes together, and it’s always good to see them, even if he can only spend time with the two in the evenings, when his training for the day is done. But when that time comes they build driftwood campfires on the beach and the flames are edged with blue and green from the salt, adding an air of magic to the whole thing. They tells stories and laugh, look at the stars and keep Roshi out of pinching range, and it’s fun.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Are you going to train in the Diablo Desert?” Krillin asks him when Roshi declares that there’s nothing more he can teach Yamcha.

“Nah,” he laughs, “Why does everyone always ask me that?”

“I dunno,” Krillin scratches his head, “It’s the way you talk about it, I guess, like it’s the best place in the world.”

“Diablo’s great,” Yamcha admits, “But there’s so much of the world I haven’t seen yet – I want to explore more of it! Besides, when you get right down to it, Diablo’s just a desert. Outside the Wandering Oasis, it’s nothing really special; there’s lots of deserts in the world.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

So he travels and trains, occasionally stopping by Capsule Corp to say hi and remind Bulma how much he loves her. He makes sure to write or call every few weeks or so as well, because that way she’s happy when she sees him and they can have fun together instead of wasting time fighting over how he can lift a boulder but not a pen. He makes sure to send notes and things to Pu’ar as well, because while Bulma might be his girlfriend, Pu’ar is his _best_ friend, and he doesn’t want _her_ to forget how much he cares for her, either.

He does odd jobs for money and meets new people and learns new recipes. He lets his hair grow out a bit because he misses the feel of it, though he still keeps it pretty short for Bulma’s sake (and even she admits that it’s nice to have a little something to run her fingers through). He becomes the third person _ever_ to master the Kamehameha outside of its creator and doesn’t tell anyone, not even Pu’ar, because he wants it to be a surprise at the Budokai, to show everyone how far he’s come.

It’s a wonderful time, full of freedom and hope and learning, and the future seems limitless, anything attainable. He’s Yamcha, disciple of the Turtle Sen’nin, master of the Wolf Fang and the Kamehameha, with a wonderful girlfriend and other good friends, and he’s alive and life is grand, because he’s entering the Budokai again and this time he thinks he just might win.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha wakes up in the hospital with Bulma sitting in a chair nearby and Pu’ar crying quietly beside him and his leg in a cast. He’s a little muzzy from the beating he took at the hands of that assassin-in-training, but he doesn’t remember breaking his leg, and he can _feel_ the enormous bruise his back is turning into, and the matching ones in his gut and probably on his chest, and he can recall the blows that resulted in each one with perfect clarity, all except for his back and his leg, and he cannot for the life of him figure out how he got both at once.

A few more tears slip down Pu’ar’s cheeks (and damn him and the Crane bastard both for making her cry) and she tells him that Shinhan broke his leg after Yamcha had been knocked out.

And, for a moment, Yamcha sees a severed arm on a counter, feels a sense of absolute confusion, of ‘ _why did he do that?_ ’

Then he’s pushing himself out of bed, because he might not have been able to do it, but the tournament’s still on, and there’s still Goku and Krillin and Chun, and Yamcha’s going to _watch_ as that Crane bastard goes down.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The Crane bastard does not go down.

In fact, he wins the tournament.

And it turns out, he’s not really a bastard after all. He’s a guy called Tien Shinhan, who’s just realized that the ways he’s been taught all his life are wrong and has decided to move beyond them. The man who speaks to Yamcha after the tournament is not the one he faced in the ring; this man is deeply ashamed of his behavior and truly sorry for taking things so far.

And Yamcha looks at him and sees the faces of frightened travelers, feels the crunch of a nose breaking under the heel of his hand (though he can’t find the memory to go with the sensation), and he knows he’s not entirely without sin himself.

So it’s with complete sincerity that he gives Tien a light punch in the shoulder and calls it even. “I’m just glad to be alive,” he jokes, “And don’t think that’s all I’ve got! You got the drop on me this time – I’ll be looking for a rematch once my leg heals!”

Tien blinks, then grins back. “I’ll look forward to it. Don’t think I’ll be sitting idle while you heal, though.”

“Of course not.”

It’s revealed that blonde Lunch, at least, has a thing for bad boys, because Tien’s getting a love confession right in front of everyone and it’s pretty darn funny when it’s happening to someone else, Tien turning pink as he tells the ground in front of Lunch’s feet that he’s not ready for a relationship. They all make plans for another group victory feast and Yamcha’s looking forward to enjoying it properly this time and catching up with old friends and getting to know new ones.

And then there’s a yell from the main building, a yell that sounds far too familiar for comfort when Krillin went in there only a few minutes ago to grab Goku’s stuff for him, and it turns out Krillin-

Krillin is dead.

And, just like that, the future turns to ash.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Demon King Piccolo,” says Roshi, and it rings a vague bell in Yamcha’s mind, a strange twist of death and laughter on the desert wind that he doesn’t understand.

Tien’s heard the name before, though, and he looks legitimately scared – Tien, who just won the Budokai. And, as Roshi tells them about the dark times of his own youth (some several hundred years ago), Yamcha can understand why. And Goku’s just gone running off after this monster’s minion, weakened from the tournament, alone on an empty stomach, and that means there’s every chance that there will be need for a joint funeral by the time the sun rises.

Then again, it’s Goku, the boy who defeated the Red Ribbon Army on his own, and he’s only gotten stronger since then. Maybe he _can_ do it. Maybe he _can_ win – he did defeated the devil himself fighting Baba’s warriors, after all.

The group waits all night at the Budokai stadium and Yamcha is quietly furious, unable to shake the feeling that there’s more he has to give, more he could _do_ (and, strangely enough, the nagging conviction that his leg should be better by now (even if his tooth never did grow back like he’d told Bulma it would (she’d mocked him for a week, then taken him to the dentist to get a false one))). When he tries to express all this (the desire to avenge Krillin and Goku (not the healing bit)), Bulma just yells at him again, demanding if he’s that eager to get himself killed.

“My name was on the roster the demon stole,” he reminds her, “I’m already a target.” _A crippled target_ , he doesn’t say, but he can tell they’re both thinking it as she quiets and comes to lean against his side.

They wait all night.

Goku does not return.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

They regroup on Roshi’s island, filling Tien and Chiaotzu in on the dragon balls and why King Piccolo wants them. They discuss the roster, the secret Budokai roster than has become a hit list of potential threats to the demon king’s rise to power, a hit list they can’t do anything about because they don’t know who was on it and a broadcast would only cause mass hysteria. They finally decide the best course of action is to find one of the dragon balls with Bulma’s spare dragon radar, try and steal the rest from Piccolo, and wish for the demon king’s destruction.

And this is the first time Yamcha truly _regrets_ that his leg is broken. He was unhappy about it before, but the others are capable warriors (some more capable than him) and he would have been reluctantly content to leave the battle to them. But this… this is different. It’s not fighting, it’s thievery, and in this area Yamcha’s the only one of them with any experience. Yes, he was mainly a bandit, but he remembers times when stealth had appealed to him more, for the challenge of it (he also vaguely recalls swapping the contents of peoples’ pockets in market places (because it was funny? (…he had a weird sense of humour as a kid…))). Thievery, banditry – they’re arts as much as Turtle style or Crane school or Wolf Fang, and he’s the only one who knows them but if he goes he’ll only be in the way-

It’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches the others fly off in Bulma’s plane, standing on his crutches outside of Kame House, Bulma and Pu’ar on either side of him. They all stare at the jet streams for awhile, then Bulma turns to him, opens her mouth, and does a double-take.

“Yamcha, you’re _grey_. And actually sweating for once! What’s wrong?!?”

He gives her a weak grin. “Ah, it’s nothing – I guess my leg just finally noticed it’s broken; it started to hurt awhile ago.” Actually it hurts a lot more than a bit – he doesn’t think he’s ever been in this much pain before – but he doesn’t have any weight on it at the moment and if he sits down soon it should be fine and Bulma’s staring at him like he’s lost his mind, that’s almost never a good thing-

“Or maybe the pain meds they gave you at the hospital have worn off and you need to have some more!!!” his girlfriend explodes when she can talk.

He wrinkles his brow. “Pain meds?”

“Yeah, you know, a little box or bottle of pills? They’d have given it to you at the hospital before you left?!”

She drags him into the house (carefully, though, so as not to jostle his leg) as he thinks for a moment. “I think they gave me a bottle of stuff – I was still a bit blurry from being knocked out, so I just stuck it in my jacket pocket. Think that’s it?”

Bulma gives him a baleful look. “Almost certainly.”

“And they’ll make my leg stop hurting?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” she grumbles, sitting on the arm of the couch next to him.

“Oh.” He blinks, then grins, “Cool. Is that something they came up with recently?”

Bulma falls off of her perch, then scrabbles up to glare at him. “How? How do you get to twenty without knowing about these things?!?”

She continues to scold him even as she gets the bottle and some water for him and shows him where the dosage instructions are. Then, when the grueling pain has been reduced to a dull ache, she comes and curls beside him on the couch and pets Pu’ar, who has occupied Yamcha’s shoulder as she often does when he sits like this. Yamcha moves his small friend to his lap so he can rub her ears more easily and Bulma keeps stroking her back and, in spite of the situation, the blue-grey cat goes limp, though she’s still not relaxed enough to purr.

Oolong comes in after a bit, a (non-pornographic) magazine under one arm. He and Yamcha exchange a long look, and then Yamcha nods his chin towards the other end of the couch, because, jerk he may be, but the little pig’s still a kid, the same age as Goku and a bit younger than Pu’ar, and as prone to fear as any of them. The young shape-changer goes to sit, casually opening his magazine like he doesn’t even notice that there’s anyone else in the room. A short while later Lunch joins them from wherever she’s been. She plunks herself on the floor, decapsulizes a machine gun, and begins to break it down to clean it. Yamcha’s familiar enough with guns to tell that this one’s been serviced recently, but he doesn’t comment, just watches the communication radio where Bulma had set it on the table across from the couch, their only communications with the plane and Tien, Roshi, and Chiaotzu. No one speaks or asks why anyone else is in the room. They all know the answer.

Goku is almost certainly dead at this point, and their friends are off trying to outwit a demon, and the only thing any of them can do is sit and wait.

It’s a long second night at Kame House.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The communication radio trills loud in the stillness of pre-morning grey, and then-

“Tien Shinhan here, please respond.”

Yamcha’s the first up and to answer, in spite of his broken leg, leaving Bulma (who had been leaning on his shoulder) sprawled on the couch behind him. Pu’ar is launched into the air, which actually is probably for the best, because the first words out of her mouth are “Change into a toaster!” and given where she’d been lying, well… Yamcha _is_ hoping to have kids someday, and the clunk she makes when she hits the floor indicates that she would almost certainly have left a dent in something important if she’d landed on him.

And then it doesn’t matter, because Master Roshi and Chiaotzu are dead as well now, and King Piccolo has regained his youth, and Tien is going to avenge their fallen friends and save the world. Yamcha tells him not to go, part of him whispering that if they can just get to the desert, they’ll be able to hold until they get strong enough to destroy the demon (he doesn’t mention this part).

Tien refuses. He’s mastered the Mafuba, the demon seal. He knows the risks, knows the _cost_. He’s still willing to use it. The Crane student says he’s not the type to give up his life selflessly for the world, it’s just his duty as a martial artist to do this.

Yamcha fails to see the distinction.

He also fails to talk Tien out of it, because Bulma’s just mentioning that they only need to wait a year and they’ll be able to regather the dragon balls, bring everyone back, they just need to lie low and _wait_ (clever, beautiful Bulma, she has the right idea) when Oolong, who had switched on the television, yelps that they’re saying something about Piccolo on the news.

Yamcha blinks when he sees the green face smirking at them from the TV, then clutches his head (because, for a moment, he’s seeing something else (two villages destroyed and a third swallowed (caves as deep as hell (that same green face distorted by rage ( _“you know the laws, Daimao – come back when you’ve kicked over heaven”_ (laughter on the wind…))))). Then the present cuts through the fragments, and the images are swept away by horror at King Piccolo’s announcement.

West City is about to die. Shenlong is dead. Death means death, and Tien is about to face the demon, alone.

Yamcha grabs his crutches and heads to the room where his things are – his gi, his weapons. His leg may be broken, but his spirit is not; he is the master of the Wolf Fang and third disciple of Master Roshi in over a hundred years. He will not sit quietly, washing his neck for the ax as the world ends.

He will fight.

And he won’t be going alone.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

They listen to the radio as they fly Roshi’s older, slower plane towards the Capital, Yamcha piloting while Lunch and Bulma ready their guns, flying towards the fight, listening to hear if they are too late, if Tien is already dead and the first of the fires that will burn the world lit, and that’s why they hear the miracle, the miracle probably no one else in the world will ever recognize for what it is, the arrival of the second fighter, the mysterious, monstrously strong boy who can only be one person.

Who can only be Son Goku.

And, even knowing how miracles seem to follow that boy like moths to a light, Yamcha still has his doubts until Bulma remembers Baba saying that Goku would one day save the world…

And, just like that, there’s hope again.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The king of the world’s palace is going up in a fireball when they arrive, and they’re forced to land the plane much farther away than they’d planned, because suddenly there’s no cover, and it’s pointless to let themselves be blown out of the sky for taking foolish risks. They land and disembark, not bothering to recapsulize the plane as they turn towards the fight in the distance.

And Yamcha doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder to stand by anyone than Bulma and black-haired Lunch as they make their way across the broken ground, towards the sounds of battle. Neither woman is a warrior. Bulma knows how to use the machine gun she carries, but she’s only ever pointed it at practice dummies before, never a living person, no matter how evil they are. With her hair black, Lunch doesn’t even have that much – she’s carrying a rock, because even a blade she doesn’t know how to use would be more dangerous to her than to her enemy, let alone a gun. Yamcha has his favorite scimitar hanging off his hip (and it’s a good weight (a familiar weight)), because he knows more one-legged sword stances than anything else (Wolf Fang Fist is all about speed and Turtle style has a lot of strong, low to the ground stances (neither of which he can do at the moment)).

He’s the best fighter of the three of them by miles, but neither woman hesitated to comes, not back on the island, not getting off the plane, even though this Lunch has always preferred to run. Both women are scared, he can see it in their faces, in the way they move, but their eyes look straight ahead and their steps don’t waver as they follow a crippled man to a battle they will almost certainly not survive. And they do it on the miniscule chance that their presence will offer the tipping point, will be the edge their friends need to save the world, because they will not suffer them to fight alone.

They have to pause before they get there – Yamcha hates to admit it, _hates it_ , but his leg _aches_ and he needs to give it a rest if he wants to be of any potential use, even with the crutches to help him. They hide behind some rubble, listening to the battle. He gives himself five minutes, no more, but as he watches his friends’ faces in those five minutes he swears to himself that he’ll make an attack that doesn’t require legs, one with range and accuracy, so that he will never have to sit on the sidelines again due to a broken leg, a crushed foot, or even a fucking broken _spine_ , helpless and unable to do anything but watch his friends die. Never, never again will he allow himself to be this powerless.

Five minutes goes too fast, but he forces himself to his feet, and Bulma’s face is chalky and Lunch’s eyes are full of tears, but they both nod and rise with him. There are no others he would be prouder to walk to his potential death with than these two women.

No one.

And it’s torture, because they’re still far enough away that they can’t see the details, can’t find Tien in the dust, but they can see a small figure squaring off with a larger one, can see it but can’t do anything to help, can’t run or cry out as both figures charge, connect, and-

It’s a few minutes before any of them can see again, blinking the spots from the explosion out of their eyes. And when they do, they’re greeted by the sight of a stranger carrying Goku’s limp form to a sky car, and watching the two leave is-

“TIEN!”

“TIEN SHINHAN!”

The triclops turns at their shouting, battered and startled to see them but _alive_. “What are you doing?”

“Arriving too late to do anything,” Bulma grumbles, but Yamcha notices her eyes are locked on the retreating sky car.

“What happened, Shinhan?” he asks as he hobbles up to the man who, about two and a half days ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to beat until he looked as bad as he does now. Except now Yamcha’s looking at those bruises and wondering how many could have been prevented if he’d gotten there sooner (and how can you go from being enemies to friends so fast? (it must be one of those miracles that follow Goku)). “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

Tien snorts. “So do you.” At Yamcha’s confused look, Tien gestures at Yamcha’s chest where it’s uncovered by his gi, and which is still in the process of cycling through the bruise rainbow from his fight with Tien. Yamcha had honestly forgotten about it, and the ones on his back, but now he remembers again he can feel the faint twinges of already-abused muscles protesting all this sudden physical activity.

…his life is going to be pain tomorrow…

But, for right now- “Tien, what happened to Goku?”

And the other man smiles, wide and relieved. “He’s battered but alive. Yajirobe’s taking him somewhere for some healing stuff he apparently found while we thought he was dead. He did it – he killed Piccolo.”

And Yamcha’s knees go weak with relief and he sags on his crutches. “That kid’s something else.”

“He really is,” Tien agrees, “I look forward to facing him in the next Budokai.”

Yamcha stares at him, slack-jawed, “You’re _already-_?!” then he lets his head drop and laughs, because they’ve won, and while they’ve lost three good friends, the fourth has crawled back out of the grave, not as dead as they thought he was, and the evil is vanquished. “Yeah. Me too.”

And Bulma’s running off to get the plane, yelling at Tien to not _dare_ start telling the story without her and also sit down before you fall down you stupid, stupid men-creatures, and Lunch is cuddling up to Tien’s arm with a shy smile (apparently both of her likes him (huh)), and the world’s still standing, and it’s easy to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind saying that it’s harder to permanently kill some things than you’d expect…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

They regroup at Kame House again. Tien tells them about the failed dragon ball mission and the successful battle. Goku bursts in, grabs his nyoi-boi staff, and bursts out again in an excited whirlwind of “We might be able to bring everyone back to life after all, don’t cremate anyone, okay, I just gotta talk to Kami first!”

…knowing Goku, Yamcha is starting to realize, is an exercise in leaving each encounter with more questions than you started with half the time.

Oolong and Pu’ar still go off to retrieve the stone dragon balls from the location Tien gives them, on the basis that miracles seem to be in vogue today and they were unable to help with anything else (honestly, the two shape shifters put their past behind them years ago (it’s just Yamcha who still carries a grudge)).

And, whatever magic it is that surrounds Goku, he’s done it again. Everyone’s back to life, everyone who was killed by Piccolo and his minions, and for awhile the beach at Kame House is like the reunion scene from a feel-good movie, everyone hugging and laughing with teary eyes (or gritty ones, in Yamcha’s case), celebrating the fact that what they’d thought was a permanent divide has turned out to be temporary after all.

Then the rest of the eternal dragon’s words sink in (or are told to those who were too dead to hear them at the time). Goku is off training with Kami, with _God_. He’ll give them answers at the next Budokai, but they won’t see him again until then. And, for all their talk of closing gaps and getting stronger, Yamcha can see in Krillin and Tien’s eyes that the same thoughts are occurring to them. Training from Kami sounds great – exactly the sort of thing Goku, or any of them, would love. But it also sounds like a reward with a purpose. Why would Kami train someone for no reason? It seems too strange to be true. And that means that, whatever’s going on, it’s not finished. Even if King Piccolo is dead, there’s at least one more battle in the future.

And the three men are now making each other a silent promise. That next time, Goku won’t be facing the end of the world alone.

Next time, they’ll be strong enough to stand with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s one of my personal headcanons that Bulma has a certain amount of misandry going on, at least when she’s younger. She likes guys a lot, and obviously is interested in getting together with one, but at the same time she doesn’t seem to hold a very high opinion of them (and unfortunately this opinion does often get substantiated by the men she encounters on her adventures). I see this as being the root of a lot of her conflicts with Yamcha, in combination with him not being very good at standing up for himself against her. It’s a messy situation, but, then again, they’re also both young and new at this whole ‘relationships’ thing. They’ll learn. Maybe slowly, but they’ll learn. ;)
> 
> Before anyone asks, yes, I totally made up Krillin’s backstory, at least in regards to the details beyond him being a young monk at Orin temple. Because why not? Also, I love taking things and looking at them on the slant, and Krillin’s situation is similar to my own as I have a terrible sense of smell. People have told me this is sad, tragic, a problem. Personally, I fear no wet dog. I fear no gym shoe. Every strength is a weakness, every weakness is a strength, and I wanted to give Krillin a new perspective. Because, hoo boy, if there is ever a time you feel utterly self-conscious about everything that makes you different, it’s those early teen years.
> 
> Inventor of the Kamehameha: Roshi. First person seen to master it other than him: Goku. Second person seen to have done so: Grandpa Gohan. Third person: Yamcha. Goku and Yamcha are both noted to have learned the move without outside help, it is unstated whether Roshi taught Grandpa Gohan or not. It is indicated to be highly impressive that they did this. Also… damn, I really wanted to write that first fight with Tien, but then a perfect transition point came up, smacked me between the eyes, and skipped most of the 22nd Budokai. I’m still somewhat cross about this, but I also can’t bring myself to change it.
> 
> One of the challenges of writing a story like this is that not only is Yamcha (the story’s focus) not there for many of the key battle scenes, most of you reading already know how all the really exciting bits play out, which meant I had to find a new angle to approach these well-known stories from in order to keep your attention and make it interesting! Which was when my many hours of playing D&D came in handy, thanks to a simple little term: player knowledge. It’s a gaming term that denotes knowledge the player has that the character doesn’t, and it was the perfect solution to my dilemma, because they group doesn’t know that they’ll find a loophole to bring everyone back at the end of each arc or that trying to catch up to Goku is like trying to catch the sun. Please let me know if you think it worked well!


	4. Crow of the Mountain

“I don’t see _why_ you have to go,” Bulma grumbles as Yamcha packs. His cast is off (the doctor said he’d never seen a bone heal so swiftly or cleanly), and now he’s itching to be out training.

“I told you Bulma, it’s not over.” Yamcha considers his gi and his yellow capsule case, the one that holds his most important possessions (it’s about the only yellow thing he owns (he’s not very fond of yellow, to be honest)), then tucks both into his travel pack.

“Oh yes, please, do bring up the mythical hunch again,” Bulma snarks, folding her arms and huffing, “Because that’s _such_ a good reason!”

Yamcha sighs and buckles the straps of his pack. “Come on, B, you’re smarter than that, and me. And if _I_ was able to reach that conclusion so easily…”

“I know,” Bulma sighs as well, relenting, “I swear, trouble follows Goku around like a lost puppy. It’s just…” she looks away, biting her lip, a rare show of vulnerability from Bulma Briefs, beautiful genius, “I don’t see why _you_ have to go.” She looks back at him, eyes wet. “I only just got you back after _two years_ of seeing each other maybe once a week, and now you’re going to be gone for almost three, and you don’t think we’ll see each other _at all_ during it? Why does it have to be you? Why can’t we just leave it to the rest of them?”

He goes to sit beside her on the bed, then gives her a long, slow kiss. When they break apart, he keeps his face close to hers, black eyes locked on blue. “Because I never want to see you that scared again and not be able to do anything about it,” he says with a quiet intensity, “Because I want a world where I can walk into your lab wanting to know why you’re an hour late for our date and find you dressed like a movie star and waist-deep in some machine, with grease and oil up to your elbows, because you had an epiphany while you were putting on your make-up.

“And we’ll go out anyway, grease and all, because you’re Bulma Briefs and you don’t follow the rules, you _make_ them, and you’ll spend half the meal telling me what horrible thing you were doing to physics _this time_ and how they’ll have to reprint the textbooks _again_. And I’ll probably only understand about half of it at best, but that’ll be fine, because you’ll be smiling as bright as the sun and I will know, _know_ , that nothing is going to make you stop smiling. That’s why I’m going.”

Bulma leans into him and sighs again, but this sound is less miserable and more a little ‘oh’ of breath, as though, for a moment, she can see his beautiful vision, and she wants it, too. “Where _did_ you get so good with words?”

He laughs a little. “I used to love listening to people telling stories – professionals in the marketplaces, travelers around the campfire in the dunes. Listen enough and you pick up a few things.”

“Mmm.” She looks up at him again, cheeks light pink and gaze a little smoky. “Before you go, are you sure you don’t want to…?” and she moves so their legs are touching and her hand is resting far up on his thigh.

Yamcha swallows. He wants to, of course he wants to, they’re both twenty (at least, they’re pretty sure Yamcha’s twenty (he’s turning out to be prone to _extremely_ youthful features)), Bulma is sexy as hell, he loves her, and he is, in fact, a man, of the sort who is interested in this sort of thing.

He really, really, _really_ wants to.

He’s not going to.

Because he knows that, while she also really, really, _really_ wants to, Bulma also thinks this will be a way to ensure he comes back to her, that it will forge some connection that will hold them together. And it won’t. He’s not sure how he knows it, but he does, and this isn’t how he wants his first time to be.

He also knows they don’t need it to.

“Come on, Bulma,” he smiles at her, “When I come back, it won’t be for sex – it’ll be for this.” And he brushes her heart with gentle knuckles.

She shakes her head in annoyance, but brings a hand up to hold his in place, smiling as well. “Since when did you get so smooth?”

He grins and kisses her again. “Only with you, B. Only with you.”

She snorts and shoves him lightly in the shoulder. “Fine, fine, I’ll respect your boundaries. But only because you sound like something out of a manga and it’s hella hot.”

Yamcha grins at her, then falters a bit, eyes dropping to his hands. “You- you know you don’t have to- that is, it’s going to be a really long-”

He’s halted by a finger against his lips. “Yams darling?” she says sweetly, “Shut up. We both know I’m the smarter one of the two of us, and that means I’m fully capable of figuring out the outcomes of my actions when I can be bothered to do so. If you want to wait for sex, we can wait for sex. And if I want to wait for you… I will wait for you. After all,” she leans in and nuzzles his cheek, “You’re my perfect boyfriend that I found thanks to the dragon balls! Now shoo – the sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back, right? Oh! Wait, before you do…” she slides from where she’s been sitting on his bed, goes to the door and grabs something from beside it in the hallway. It’s a long blue coat, with a guard across the shoulders to prevent wear from backpack straps. “You’re so bad at handling the cold, I wanted to make sure you had something decent to wear.”

Yamcha looks at it with surprise, “I thought you didn’t want me to go.”

“I don’t! However I _am_ a genius – I factored how stubborn you are into my plans!” she scowls at him, “If you don’t want it, fine, go freeze to death for all I-”

She stops talking as he takes the coat gently from her hands, feels the quality of the canvas and the slightly smooth texture that indicates it will be useful against rain as well as cold. Unfolding it reveals that it’s a little on the large side, enough that it will still fit comfortably if he puts on more muscle mass, and he smiles. “I love it, B. Thank-you.”

She huffs, indignation replaced with pleasure as he refolds it and straps it onto his pack with the fastenings generally used for bedrolls. “Just- just make sure it’s worth it, okay? No slacking or anything. I- argh, go away before I just decide to ignore your rights as a sentient being and just to keep you here by force!”

So he shoulders his pack, gives her one last kiss, and goes. A quick stop to say good-bye to Pu’ar and the elder Briefs, and he’s heading off into the world.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He doesn’t leave on his airbike this time, he takes a bus. The Flying Squirrel and a few packs of fuel pellets are in his yellow capsule case, tucked safe in his bag, but for this journey he wants to spend as much time training as possible. He’s got some zenii saved up from working that construction site under Roshi, and a bit more that Dr. Briefs gave him (less than he was offered, though (Bulma’s parents are generous people)), but he’s got to make what he has stretch as far as possible (more time training, less time working) and fuel pellets cost more than a bus ticket.

He sighs, leaning his head against the window and watching as the city turns into fields. He’s going to fall behind the other four, he knows it, and not just because they have a two-month lead on him. No, Yamcha’s going to fall behind because he’s picking up his sword again, and training two forms at once means that neither will be as strong as they could be if pursued individually – that’s just how it works. It seems like a foolish move, but, well… the main lesson Yamcha took form Demon King Piccolo’s brief reign is that they have no way of knowing what the future holds, not really – even Baba had only been able to say that Goku would one day save the world, not how he would save it, or what from. Fists and ki have carried the day in the past, but a thief would have been useful this time around – who’s to say they won’t need a swordsman in the future? There’s a _reason_ people invented swords, after all, they are startlingly effective when properly utilized.

Yamcha’s not going to be winning the 23rd Budokai, and he knows it.

He grins to himself.

He might not win it, but there are only five members of their group and, given the way things have fallen in the past, there’s no reason not to hope he won’t cross paths with Goku, Tien, Krillin, or Chiaotzu until the quarter-finals at the soonest. Those four might wind up stronger than him (though he’s pretty sure he’ll still be able to whup Chiaotzu in a fair fight), but making it to the semi-finals is still conceivable this time. Maybe he’ll even run into Jackie Chun again and get to try his stuff against the old man, see how much he’s improved!

Besides, there’s something else he knows that gives his pride as a warrior a certain degree of comfort, and it’s that most people, once they hit Budokai level, tend to view weapons as being somewhat superfluous and stop training with them. Indeed, the only ones he knows of at that level who do so are Goku, with his nyoi-boi, and the Ox King, with his mighty ax.

Yamcha’s grin widens a little as he summons some ki to one fingertip in a tiny, glowing ball, the most rudimentary form of a new ki technique he’s been working out during his convalescence and only recently been able to start playing with in the real world. He may never be able to win the title Strongest Under the Heavens as he once dreamed of doing, but, by the time the Budokai comes? He’s pretty sure it will be no false claim to say he’s the finest swordsman in the world.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha used his time healing to plan his training regime, and part of that had involved asking Roshi for some advice on where to go to get stronger, as well as where to find a good sword master (because he can’t remember ever having had formal sword training (and it would probably be a good idea if he wants to be the best)). The old man had told him two places to go to – the Karin Preserve and Tengu Mountain. Yamcha’s going to the Karin Preserve to try the tower there first – get stronger with help, then use those techniques and what he’s learned from Roshi to train further on his own. Once he’s gotten stronger, he’ll take some time to adjust to the new strength and learn how to use it effectively (because _damn_ but it had been tricky to adjust the first time he took that weighted shell off, even in regards to just walking without accidentally launching himself into the air with each step (which, admittedly, had been kinda fun, but not very practical for day-to-day life, especially in buildings with low ceilings)).

After this he’ll head to Tengu Mountain for some sword training (he’ll need to pick up some fine sake before that (Roshi had been unable to stress enough how important the sake was)). Train there for as long as it takes, then use the remainder of his time to train on his own in some different terrains he’s looked up (forests, jungles, other mountains (no deserts (he’s had enough of deserts for now (and it has nothing to do with being severely freaked out by those weird visions during King Piccolo’s brief reign (nothing at all))))). And of course he’ll keep up his ki training throughout.

It’s going to be absolutely grueling, and he can hardly wait to get started.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He arrives at the base of Karin Tower at the same time Krillin does, with the key difference being that Yamcha’s walking towards it, having just finished the preliminary trial you have to pass in order to approach (it involves fighting Upa, the youth from this area he’d met during Baba’s tournament (actually it’s less a trial and more the teen wanting to test himself to see how his own training as future protector of the sanctuary is going (the kid’s growing up well))), and Krillin has just finished climbing down.

“Yamcha!” the short teen crows, waving as he hops off a good twenty feet from the ground to land lightly in from of him, “I didn’t expect to see you here – how’s the leg?”

“Good as new!” he does a kick to demonstrate and Krillin blinks, surprised.

“Wow, um, sorry – you must still be getting back in shape after having to take it easy for awhile, huh?”

Yamcha’s indignant for a moment – he worked very hard to maintain his strength without hindering the healing process while his cast was on and he’s barely lost anything at all! Then the zeni drops and he’s just impressed. “Whoever’s up there – their training’s _that_ good?”

“What do you- oh,” Krillin’s eyes widen as he gets it, too, “I guess so.” He looks down at his hands, then grins and flexes.

Yamcha grins back. “Any tips for me before I start?”

Krillin thinks for a moment, then nods. “Start tomorrow and make sure you have some rope with you – you’ll want to start fresh, and it’s high enough that it’ll take you a few days to climb, so you’ll need to tie yourself on to sleep.”

Yamcha nods in thanks and Krillin starts to go only for Yamcha to call out to him. “Hey, Krill?”

“Yeah?”

Yamcha hesitates, then plunges ahead. “We broke up pretty fast last time. I- did you get the feeling…?”

“That it’s not over?” Krillin interrupts him, “Yeah. Got some plans on that front. I’m gonna take a page out of your book, actually.”

“Oh?” and it’s childish, but his very first thought is that Krillin’s not allowed to be good with swords, that’s _his_ thing.

The youth grins at him. “Yup – I’m gonna steal something!”

Yamcha blinks, then laughs. “I don’t do that anymore, you know.”

“Then there’s an opening!” Krillin holds up his hands like he’s mapping out a billboard or something, “I can see it now: ‘Krillin, the Ki Bandit!’”

“More like the Octopus Bandit,” Yamcha teases, laughing when Krillin sulks.

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Shampoo Commercial, I shave my head, this is not natural!”

“I know – I saw you doing it when we trained together with Roshi,” Yamcha smirks, “But it’s the right of the older generation to pick on the younger one.”

“We’re going to meet at the Budokai and I’m going to kick your ass,” Krillin grumbles, but he’s smiling a bit and now they really do part ways, waving to each other as Krillin leaves.

Yamcha goes back to Upa and his father, Bora, and requests permission to set up camp for the night and try the tower in the morning (because this is their territory and he is a guest on it). Bora agrees and even invites him to join their evening meal, which he accepts. It’s a good evening, spent swapping stories with Upa about what the kid’s been getting up to the past couple years and Yamcha’s own experiences in the wider world, and Yamcha is a little surprised to hear that the teen has no intentions of leaving his homeland in search of opponents or adventure.

“It was good to go with you and your friends for awhile, but everything I want is here,” Upa grins, face open and friendly in the firelight. He’s honestly content here, learning the traditions of his people and training to become the next guardian of the Karin Sanctuary. Yamcha can respect that, even if it’s not the sort of life he wants for himself right now.

“Besides,” Upa adds, “If I want to know more about the world, I can talk to travelers like you – and there’s always my older sister, Northi. She left the sanctuary years ago to see the world, and she sends us letters and postcards all the time, telling us about her adventures!”

The last bit reminds Yamcha that he’s got a couple loved ones of his own back home, and it’d be a good idea to write them now because while he doesn’t know how long the training will take, Yamcha’s pretty sure that there won’t be a post box at the top of the tower. He says goodnight to his hosts, then goes and sets up his sleeping bag and a ground mat under a tree (then does so again under a different tree after a quick lesson from Bora on how to spot dead branches), and writes to his friends by flashlight, excited for the coming day and vaguely missing the moon.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The next morning Upa tells him that the post pterodactyl will be by in a few days and happily agrees to include Yamcha’s letter in the post bag (he really is a nice kid, it’s no wonder he could ride Kinto’un with Goku). He wishes Yamcha luck, and then Yamcha starts to climb. His pack is a little awkward for this task, but it’s no worse than the heavy turtle shell he wore under Roshi, and the weight will just make the climb a better workout in the long run.

It takes him three days to climb the Tower. He could probably have gotten up faster, but he’d decided to take his time and make sure he didn’t fall or slip (which he doesn’t, not once, for the entire climb). He also can’t help stopping occasionally to look at the carvings. He’d thought they would disappear or at least grow less intricate as he got up past where anyone would be able to see them, but they don’t, and it seems a shame not to appreciate them, since he’s likely one of the few who will ever get a chance to do so. And it strikes him that, while the Sanctuary is the territory of Upa and his tribe, the Tower itself belongs to whoever lives at the top of it, making it one of the strangest, most beautiful territories he’s ever seen. And he can’t help it, but he always thinks of places in terms of ‘territory’ (it annoys Bulma but the habit won’t break, no matter how he tries), possibly a result of his life as a bandit, where the border between ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ wasn’t a friendly hedge in a neighborhood (it was a difference of life and death (mortal and invulnerable (what? (nothing)))).

He climbs and climbs.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Master Karin is a bit of a surprise, though Yamcha supposes he shouldn’t be – Pu’ar’s his best friend, after all. The old cat sage is pleased when Yamcha compliments the Tower, though he starts a bit when Yamcha calls it ‘territory,’ giving him a long look before nodding to himself.

“So that’s how it is.”

When Yamcha asks what he means by that, the old cat just gives the kind of smile only those of a feline persuasion can truly pull off and tells him to go ahead and taste the holy water that increases the drinker’s strength. Yamcha blinks – surely it isn’t as simple as that?

It isn’t.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

When he finally calls it quits for the evening and goes to where he’d dropped his pack to get some food, Master Karin stops him from getting to that, too, just as he’s been blocking Yamcha from reaching the holy water all day. Yamcha is about to get really pissed – the holy water’s one thing, something like that _deserves_ to have the drinker prove their worth, but that pack is _his_ and how is he supposed to get the water if he’s too hungry to move? He’s not at that point yet, but he’ll get there eventually! Then Karin flicks him a small object, something he calls a ‘senzu bean,’ and tells him to try that instead.

The effect is miraculous (which is appropriate for a holy medicine). As soon as he swallows the bean, all his exhaustion and hunger fall away like they’d been. Not only that, but- there’s the _oddest_ sensation in his mouth, and then the false tooth he’s worn for years pops out. When he feels around with his tongue there’s a new tooth grown in, a strange sensation after it being missing for years. Furthermore, the lingering ache from his leg, which the doctor had said would vanish eventually on its own, is completely gone. He stares at the false tooth in his hand, flexes his leg, then turns to grin at Karin.

“If this is what the stuff you give away for free is like, I can’t wait to see what that water does!”

Karin grins back. “I think you’ll be very surprised when you find out.”

“Oh?” Yamcha raises an eyebrow and puts the tooth in a pocket (maybe he’ll keep it, maybe not, but just throwing it off the Tower feels rude).

“Oh yes,” the cat’s smile takes on a satisfied edge, “Everyone is.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It takes him two and a half weeks to catch the cat and get the flask, and it’s a triumph when he does, followed by disappointment because it’s not some mystical holy elixir after all, just rainwater.

“Oh come now,” Karin purrs when Yamcha asks him what the point of this was, “Your little monkey friend may have needed to have it explained, but Krillin figured it out on his own, and you’re at least as clever as him.”

Yamcha’s not feeling very clever at the moment, just frustrated. “Can I have a hint?”

Karin chuckles. “Things aren’t always what they seem, oh bandit desert.”

“Desert bandit – and I stopped that, thanks,” Yamcha corrects, miffed, before the pieces click into place. “It’s not the water – it’s the trying to get the water! That’s why you’ve been encouraging me to streamline my movements and stuff, it’s not magic water, _it’s training_!” and yeah, it’s stupidly obvious now that he’s figured it out, but he’s still pleased with himself for not needed to have it told to him like Goku (the kid’s a genius fighter, but that’s about all he’s a genius at).

“Exactly,” the old cat nods, “I do have something else – a medicine that draws out the hidden strengths of a person. If you wish, I will allow you to taste it, but be warned – it is also a deadly poison, and unless your body is stronger than the poison, it will kill you.”

Yamcha considers this offer for a moment, then shakes his head, grinning. “I’ve chased a magical power boost for almost three weeks, but here at the end, I think I like having earned that strength through my own work better than I would have if I’d gotten it from drinking magic water. If it’s all the same to you, Master, I’ll find out what secrets I’ve got hidden in me with my own abilities.”

“A wise choice,” Karin grins, “One I believe will surprise you as much as my holy water one day.” He gifts Yamcha with a pouch of senzu beans to help with his training, then bids him farewell.

He meets Tien and Chiaotzu going up as he goes down, and they exchange brief nods to each other as they pass.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha runs most of the way to Tengu Mountain. It would have been faster to take the bus or his airbike, but this is better training, especially as he tries to streamline his movements even further, the way Master Karin has taught him. Even with Master Karin’s efficiency and Master Roshi’s strength, however, it still takes him a month to get there.

He stops in at a nearby town before approaching the mountain, because he remembers Roshi’s advice/warning. The pouch of senzu has allowed Yamcha to reorganize his budget a bit. Food he’s never worried about, since he’s a decent hunter, well able to catch and forage for what he needs. Mostly the money he brought is for transportation, replacing destroyed clothing or gear, and medical emergencies (because training injuries happen and a first aid kit isn’t always enough). The senzu mean he doesn’t have to worry so much and will be able to stray much farther from civilization on his own than he might have otherwise, and also leave more money free to buy a really fine bottle of sake, much better than he could have afforded previously.

The storekeeper gives him a once-over as he pays, taking in Yamcha’s dusty clothes, his slightly messy hair, and then the bottle of alcohol he’s just handed her, old-fashioned and ceramic, hand-painted with delicate cherry blossoms. She raises a pointed eyebrow at the contrast.

“It’s a gift,” he explains, feeling unaccountably embarrassed, “For the sword master on Tengu Mountain – I’m hoping he’ll take me on as a student.”

Her eyes widen almost comically at this, and it’s only Yamcha’s lightning-swift reflexes that save the sake bottle as it slips from limp fingers.

“I take it you’ve heard of him,” Yamcha says drily, putting the bottle back on the counter, “Has he taken any students lately?”

She shakes her head, brushing a few strands of graying hair back behind her ears. “No, no one has tried since my mother was a very little girl. She told me about a young man, like you. He came to our town with a fine sword on his hip and a confident air. She told me he was so handsome, so full of life, much like you, young man. And, like you, he came to my family’s shop, which sells the best sake for miles, and bought one of our finest bottles. He was so confident, my mother said, so full of life…” she reaches towards his face, as though to touch his cheek, but stops herself halfway.

“What happened to him?” Yamcha asks, though he knows it’s not going to be a happy answer.

The old woman stares at him, pensive, face drawn. “My mother told me, it was not unknown for the Master to take the occasional student back then. Great warriors had walked off the mountain, and all the village gathered to see him off. He walked the path to the mountain, so proud…” she looks away from him, hugs herself. “A month my mother and the village waited. Four months, eight. A year. And at the end of that year there came a great wind storm. The trees on the mountain screamed all through the night, my mother said, as though they were truly filled with the demons the mountain is named for.

“In the morning… the woodcutters found the young man’s body at the foot of the mountain, his face and upper body slashed, his fine sword broken beside him. He was no longer handsome, no longer full of life.” She shivers. “That was close to a hundred years ago now, young man, and to this day no person has climbed the mountain. If the old sword master is still there, he is not human, and he no longer has any use for students. Please,” her hand darts forward to catch his sleeve, eyes pleading, “Please, do not climb the mountain, do not seek the master. Times are peaceful now, and you are so young, so full of life… please, young man, do not turn yourself into another ghost on the mountainside.”

Yamcha gently removes her hand from his arm. “Peace now doesn’t mean peace tomorrow, ma’am, and I’ve been told that if I want to become the best there is with a sword, this is the man to go to. Besides, I’m not as young as I look!”

She gazes at him sadly. “You don’t even have a sword.”

He laughs and pats his pocket where the blue-striped capsule rests. “It’s capsulized – a lot of people get antsy if you walk around with a sword on your hip in the city.” On a whim he grabs a bottle of really cheap sake and puts that on the counter as well, adding some extra money. “I’m going up the mountain.”

The shopkeeper rings him up dejectedly. “Then I will pray, for your sake, that the old master is dead.”

“Pray he’s still alive – I don’t have another option if he isn’t,” Yamcha jokes.

She calls out to him as he heads for the exit, “Tell me your name at least, so I will know who to contact when your body is found?”

He turns back to look at her and grins. “I’ll tell you when I get back.” Then he salutes her with the bag holding the sake bottles and leaves.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He has his scimitar on his hip as he approaches the mountain, on his hip and loose in its sheath, freshly cleaned. Optimistic he may be but foolhardy he is not. There’s a set of letters in the postbox back at the town for Bulma and Pu’ar, filling them in on some of the details of his recent travels and on what he’s about to do. He’s not… afraid exactly, just cautious. Roshi specified that sake was important for a safe, genial meeting, but who knows if that information is still good? The woman in the village doesn’t seem to think it will help him. And so his approach is wary, cautious.

And it’s proven to be justified, because the instant he crosses into the foothills he’s attacked by a man with a red face, a very long nose, and wild white hair.

“TRESPASSER!!!” the man screeches, his katana slicing through the air, aiming at Yamcha’s face, “INVADER!!!”

Yamcha flips out of the way just in time, landing with his sword in his hand, the bag of sake safe on a nearby stump. “Wait, hear me out-”

“INTERLOPER!!!” the man ignores his words and comes at him in a rush of black and green and brown.

It’s the most terrifying fight Yamcha’s ever been in, because this man, his skill with a blade is unlike anything Yamcha has ever seen. He’s on pure defense from the very start, and it takes all his strength, all his speed, everything he has to keep from being sliced to ribbons, the mountainous terrain impossible to find a steady foothold on, and the whole time the attacker is yelling about trespassing and thieves and it being his mountain, _his_ , and no sandy desert brat is going to take it from him-

He doesn’t know how long the fight goes on, he just knows that he’s not going to win it, not like this; he’s running out of energy and if he doesn’t pull some clever trick soon, he’s going to be killed.

It’s not a Kamehameha, it’s not a finished technique, hell, it’s not even a very well executed unfinished technique, and it’s as much by luck as design that the tiny bullet of spinning ki finds its mark. Yamcha doesn’t care about that, though, because it has the intended effect – the unexpected sting on his knuckles makes the strange man drop his sword. In a flash, Yamcha’s scooped up his own sword (which he’d had to drop to use his technique) and has it at the man’s throat, his foot on the dropped katana blade.

“I don’t _want_ your damn mountain,” he snarls, exhausted and desperate, “I want you to train me!”

The old man blinks at him, some of the redness leaving his face and his nose shrinking into something that is still definitively beak-ish. “What?”

“You’re the sword master of the mountain, yeah? I want to be your student – I brought sake, it’s in the bag!”

The old man stares at him for a long moment, and his eyes are black and round like a crow’s, so black Yamcha can see himself reflected in them, surrounded by green trees, trees that fade and turn brown then yellow and crumble until there’s nothing but rolling dunes under an enormous sky and his reflection grins, wild hair blowing long and wavy in the wind, grins at him, _reaches out for him-_

Yamcha yelps and stumbles backwards, dropping his sword and tripping over his own feet to land on his ass, staring up at the old man, heart racing. The old man is still watching him, head cocked to the side, birdlike. The red of earlier is now replaced with grey – in fact, now that Yamcha looks closely, all of the man’s skin is a weathered, stony grey, and he’s dressed as a yamabushi, though his clothes are green and brown rather than the traditional white and saffron, with a black coat or cloak of some sort clinging to his shoulders.

“So that’s the way of it. Certainly explains the rude entry,” the old man says, picking up his katana and inspecting the blade, his voice no less of a croak even when he’s not yelling, “You’re awfully far from home, desert boy.”

Yamcha shrugs, wary. “I want to master the sword, and I’m told you’re the best. So if I want to be the best, you’re the man I have to beat.”

This gets him a blink. “Let me get this straight – you want me to train you so that you can beat me up and take my title?”

“Yes,” Yamcha replies simply, because why lie about it?

There is a moment of silence. Then the old man gives a caw of laughter. “I like your style! Very well – complete my training and beat me, and you can _have_ my title of ‘the best,’ and my good will as well. Complete my training and don’t beat me, you get to leave my mountain and never come back, no second chances. Agreed?” he offers Yamcha his hand.

Yamcha considers a moment, then nods. “Agreed.” And he takes the old man’s hand.

The instant their hands connect, he feels a… something. He’s not sure how to describe it, a finality, maybe, the sense that their bargain has been Witnessed by some higher power and thus the terms are now inviolate. And, too late, Yamcha notices the small black claws that take the place of fingernails on the old man’s hands. He looks up to see the old man grinning at him, teeth white in his grey face, his black wings rustling to spread behind him (wings (not a coat or a cloak (partially-folded _wings_ ))).

“Excellent,” the old man says, pulling Yamcha to his feet with their still-joined hands, “I am Tengu, Master of Tengu Mountain, and, from this moment on, you’re my student. I think I’ll call you Scruffy.”

“My name’s Yamcha,” Yamcha says, wondering what he’s just blindly gotten himself into.

“Mmmm, sure it is,” Master Tengu says, letting go of his hand and picking up Yamcha’s sword now. He looks it over appreciatively, “At least you’ve got a proper sword, that’s something – the Azure Dragon Blade if I’m not mistaken, been well over an age since I last saw it. How did you come by it?”

“I’ve had it for a long time – stole it off some guy when I was young,” Yamcha admits, “I didn’t know it had a name.”

“A fine blade,” Master Tengu says, “Said to have been taken by the desert long ago.” He chuckles at this for some reason, then tucks it carefully in his belt. At Yamcha’s cry of indignation he holds up a hand. “First rule of Master Tengu – you get a live blade when I say you do. Second rule – you get _your_ sword back when I say you’re ready. Third rule – go find a good stick, Scruffy, you’ve got a practice sword to make.”

“Yes, Master Tengu.” Yamcha doesn’t like it, but he’s agreed to be this man’s student, and that means following his rules, just as he did with Roshi (not to mention that he gets the feeling breaking their spoken contract or trying to cheat could mean Very Bad Things Indeed for him). So he goes to find a decent length of wood, adding, “And it’s Yamcha!” over his shoulder as he goes.

“Of course it is, Scruffy,” Master Tengu says comfortably, investigating the bag of sake that has remained remarkably untouched throughout the battle, “Now, let’s see what we have here – ooo, cheap stuff! You know, it’s been _years_ since I’ve had properly terrible sake…”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

For close to a year, Yamcha trains under Master Tengu. He makes a practice sword, then makes dozens more as each one breaks in turn from constant use (wood can only stand so much (though it can stand a lot more than people think)). The regime is grueling, as harsh as Roshi’s in many ways, yet he also finds himself coming to like the strange being that is Master Tengu. The old man reveals early on that he can be surprisingly friendly, when he’s not trying to beat Yamcha over the head with a sword or whacking him for being disrespectful with the long-stemmed pipe he smokes (Yamcha has no clue what kind of wood that damn thing is made of, but he’s pretty sure it should have broken by now with the force Master Tengu puts behind it). He’s perfectly content to sit by the fire at night, fanning himself gently or smoking his pipe or sharing stories or theory behind various techniques and kata, and even, after catching him working on it during his free time one day, making suggestions for Yamcha’s own style and how it could be improved.

Though if he didn’t know any better he’d _swear_ the old man is twisting the ground beneath Yamcha’s feet whenever his footwork is anything less than perfect.

He also likes to smack Yamcha with his wings when he feels his student is getting too relaxed, chiding him to remember _all_ of his opponent’s potential weapons and not get too lost in focus on their blade. Given that those wings are more than capable of carrying their owner high up into the sky, this is not a pleasant experience.

Still, Yamcha can’t help enjoying himself – he’s a bit out of practice, yes, but he’d forgotten just how much he loves sword work. It’s such a wonderfully flashy art, movements fluid by necessity and full of curves, fancy spins, and flicks meant to remove blood from the blade in battle. Yamcha is willing to admit he’s something of a show-off, he likes to be admired, and it’s easy to be showy without sacrificing power or effectiveness when wielding a sword.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“How _did_ you get so monstrously strong?” Master Tengu grumbles as they train, and Yamcha laughs drily.

“I haven’t managed to hit you yet, old crow.” (Rule 12 had turned out to be that Master Tengu gets to call his students whatever he wants and they can’t complain about it, but rule 14 is that they may also use a nickname for him is he likes it (and he thinks ‘old crow’ is _hilarious_ )).

Master Tengu snorts. “The only reason for that is that we’re on my mountain, Scruffy, and I’m at the peak of my power here. For you to be this strong and not even standing on sand…” he shakes his head, “Let’s just say, if we fought _off_ my mountain, you’d have learned the Final Trick by now.”

The Swordsman’s Final Trick – it’s the one Master Tengu says Yamcha has to learn before he can truly call himself a master, before his blade will be of any use against enemies of King Piccolo’s ilk. He won’t tell Yamcha what the Trick is, just that it’s good and Yamcha has the right sword for it.

Yamcha’s also given up trying to figure out how everyone he meets these days seems to automatically know that he’s from the desert and does his best fighting on sand, putting it down as being ‘one of those things.’

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

His hair’s growing out again and he lets it (because he really does enjoy having it long), but for some reason it’s growing in straight this time, as opposed to the waves and curls he’s always had. It tangles more like this for some reason, too, in defiance of everything Bulma has ever told him about hair (which is a lot more than he ever wished to know about the subject).

He puts it down to ‘another of those things’ and focusses on his training.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

One night, Yamcha’s lying in the shelter he’s made for himself and simply _cannot_ get to sleep. He’d worked hard that day, and he’s going to be working hard tomorrow, and he needs his rest, but, no matter how he turns, the moonlight just keeps getting in his face-

His eyes snap open when his exhaustion-hazed brain finally processes what’s going on, and the moment it does he goes straight through the roof of his shelter in a very literal manner (oops), but for the moment that’s not important.

Because the moon is back. Somehow, impossibly, it’s _back_ , and he scrabbles and leaps to the top of the tallest tree he can find, and once he’s there he just stops and stares because there it is, huge and white and round and whole, and he starts smiling wider and wider, excitement and delight growing in him until he can’t keep it in anymore.

“HEY!” he yells, waving frantically, “HE-HEY, HEY!!!” and he throws back his head and sings for the first time in years, the notes sliding smooth and sweet out of his throat to float strangely over forested mountainside instead of sandy dunes but that’s okay, and he howls again, laughing and singing to the moon and waving until it feels like his arm is going to fall off.

(And, for a moment, he thinks he sees a woman his own age waving back at him (but then he blinks and she’s gone (so he puts it down to being over-tired))).

The next day is _awful_. His shoulder is sore, his throat’s raw, there’s a hole in the roof of his shelter, his sleeping bag is badly torn from his hasty exit (fortunately the coat Bulma gave him makes an excellent blanket in a pinch), and Master Tengu has decided to be spiteful and make his routine _extra_ grueling today for making such a racket the previous night.

It’s awful, but it’s okay, because that old ache from the 21st Budokai is finally gone (he hadn’t realized that it was even still there) and the moon is back and suddenly both the night and life in general are a little brighter.

Plus, Master Tengu relents halfway through the day and lets him have a senzu bean (…which he’d honestly forgotten he had with him), merely saying not to make a habit of it when Yamcha expresses his surprise. He also mutters something along the lines of ‘so _you’re_ the one she used to write about,’ but he won’t explain when Yamcha asks him about it.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Master Tengu always aims at Yamcha’s head when he throws things (because, for all his genius with a sword, he cannot seem to grasp the concept that Yamcha is a _human_ , and that this means certain things will _kill him_ (such as, say, a sword through his head (or being held upside-down by the ankles waist-deep in a river (which is the old crow’s favorite way to wake him up if he oversleeps (the bastard))))). Fortunately Yamcha’s reflexes are fast enough that he can usually catch what’s thrown. This time he’s surprised, though, not by the fact that something’s been thrown at his head, but by what has been thrown.

It’s the Azure Dragon Blade. His sword.

His first instinct is to draw it, check its edge (he’s always loved how well it holds its edge and how fine that edge is (it’s sharp (really sharp (‘don’t put your fingers too close to it’ sharp (no, really, don’t put your fingers too- (what did he just tell you?))))). Holding it up to the sun just so reveals a smooth hairline of light unbroken by nicks, one of his own hairs dropped on it continues to fall on either side in two pieces without the slightest hesitation, and he can’t help smiling. Even after a year of training with wood and a lesser quality scimitar Master Tengu had lent him, the Azure Dragon is a familiar, comfortable weight in his hand.

Then it sinks in just what having his sword back means, and he turns to stare at Master Tengu. The old man’s smoking his pipe, wings rustling behind him, and his amused tone when he speaks contrasts with his serious eyes.

“It’s been a year, Scruffy, and you’ve learned just about everything I’ve got to teach you, everything but the Final Trick.” He hesitates, then continues on, “You’re the best student I’ve ever had, boy. No one else has been able to stand up to me on my own mountain, you’re the first I’ve ever trained without once leaving its slopes since I arrived. So… I’m offering you a chance.”

“To learn the Trick?” Yamcha asks hopefully (because he’s _really_ curious about it at this point ( _really_ curious)).

“To be released from our bargain,” Master Tengu’s eyes are as black and unreadable as any crow’s, “The Final Trick comes with a risk – you learn it or you die trying. My last student revealed himself to be inferior in sword and spirit; he failed to learn the Trick and paid for it. Turn back now and there will be no dishonor, you’ll still be an excellent swordsman, one of the finest in the world.”

Yamcha looks at the hand and swallows. He didn’t know… Then his jaw firms. “We both know that’s a lie, Master Tengu,” he says lightly, slapping the man’s hand lightly away, “I wouldn’t be able to look my friends in the eye next time I saw them. They’ll be giving it their all, even now. How can I do any less?”

“Very well. Take the remainder of the day to rest and prepare – tonight, I teach you the Swordsman’s Final Trick.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Your sword,” Master Tengu says as he alights in the designated clearing opposite from Yamcha, “Is one of the finest in the world. There are few others that can even stand against it. This,” he holds up his own katana, “Is the Emerald Lotus Blossom. In another’s hands, it would be the Azure Dragon’s equal. In my hands, as things are now, it is its superior.” He sinks into a long stance with a flap of his wings as the wind begins to rise, “Prepare yourself, desert boy, it’s time to learn the Final Trick!”

Yamcha barely has time to draw his blade before Master Tengu is upon him. Their swords meet with a clash, and the battle is begun.

At first it’s an even match; Yamcha has grown stronger in the past year, and his skill has increased past anything he previously dreamed possible. Or, rather, the match is almost even. Yamcha has the slightest of edges and he’s pressing it, wondering what the point of this is even as part of him sings that he’s going to win, he’s going to be the best!

Then Master Tengu caws a harsh kiai, and the katana in his hands flares and gains a green aura. The next time the blades meet there is a soft ‘ting’ and the Azure Dragon Blade comes away with a nick in it.

Yamcha is stunned – this has never happened before, he’s never seen this before, never _heard_ of anything like it – and in his moment’s distraction Master Tengu slips through his defense and opens a bloody x on his left cheek, reminding him that this is no casual spar with his teacher stopping for a smoke in the middle, but a fight for Yamcha’s life.

And not just his life, he realizes as Master Tengu presses his offense, but for his sword as well. The Emerald Lotus Blossom strikes like a serpent in its green nimbus, and each blow leaves the Azure Dragon with a new nick, a new scratch, each encroaching on the integrity of the metal, on its ability to strike true and remain whole. And Master Tengu, his fighting has reached a new level, as though he and his sword have merged into a single being. He slices the tip from the Azure Dragon, then another bloody line over Yamcha's right eye, and Yamcha-

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

_For Yamcha, time stands still as he watches that little triangle of metal fly away from his sword, his **sword** , the sword he has carried so long he knows it as well as he knows himself, it is a part of himself, a true sword master’s blade is not a separate entity but a part of him, an extension of his will. It protects him and in turn he cares for it, for it is his life and should it break it will take his life with it, the sword will break, the swordsman will die, but at this moment it is his sword that suffers, it will fall before him and that is wrong, they must fall together or not at all, **they share a life-**_

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

-Yamcha lets out a breath and with it lets his ki flow into his blade, one life, one entity, and his sword _glows_ , whole once more, pulsing with a rich, steady azure…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Later, Master Tengu will tell him about ki blades – fine weapons and blue-tinted metal that can channel their wielder’s life force to create a symbiosis of the two, strengthening the weapon even further and ‘healing’ it of any damage it has suffered in the interim, while at the same time giving the wielder a true unity with the blade, letting them know it as if it were truly a part of their own body.

Later, Master Tengu will tell him about the Seven Great Treasure Blades, of which the Emerald Lotus Blossom and the Azure Dragon Blade are two, renowned for their magnificent quality and unparalleled ability to channel ki.

Later, Master Tengu will tell him of a bold young man, who swore he had found one of these great blades and would not believe that it was simply a fine broadsword, not even a ki blade, let alone the Yellow Lightning Sword he thought it to be, and how he paid for his pride with his life.

It is not yet later, though, it is now, and now Yamcha feels this new connection to his sword and truly _understands_ what it means to master a blade and be mastered by it in turn.

He presses his attack.

In the end, between now and later, one sword goes flying, its aura winking out as it whirls from its master’s hands and the unity is severed, and two men stand, one’s sword resting on the other’s throat, both bathed in the mixed silver-blue light of moon and sword.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha’s stomach does funny things as he looks at the red wetness on his fingertips from where he’s just touched his cheek.

“Bet you’ve never seen _that_ before,” Master Tengu crows as he walks over with a roll of bandages and a bowl that he’s procured from… somewhere (close to a year, and Yamcha _still_ doesn’t know where the old man stays or keeps his things).

“Of course I have,” Yamcha retorts (and he has (he must have (he just… can’t remember when))).

“If you say so,” Master Tengu chuckles, pulling a damp cloth from the bowl and wiping Yamcha’s face with a delicacy one would not expect from clawed fingers such as his (at least, not one unfamiliar with him (and after a year, Yamcha knows better (last night and the occasional dunk in the river notwithstanding, the sword master is a kind man at heart))). He raises an eyebrow when Yamcha winces at the sting and the herbal smell coming from the water. “Are you sure you don’t want to just take a senzu and fix this up?”

“Hell no,” Yamcha grins (though not too wide, careful of his cheek), “A warrior wears his scars with pride. And these ones prove I learned the Final Trick!”

“And became the greatest swordsman in the world, yeah yeah, don’t get a swollen head,” Master Tengu grumbles, though there’s no rancor in it. He continues to help Yamcha clean, dress, and bandage his wounds. They’ll scar as Yamcha predicted, but he is assured that his eye will survive uninjured. When it’s done, the old man pulls out one of his own black wing feathers, one of the smaller ones, and hands it to Yamcha. “As promised for my defeat, here – my goodwill. Carry this and you may walk my mountain without fear,” then he grins and punches Yamcha in the arm, “So don’t be a stranger! Come back and visit me sometime before you die, Yamcha!”

It’s the first time he’s used Yamcha’s name, and Yamcha grins and bows to him, in thanks and respect, gladly making this promise to the strange grey man who has become his teacher, and his friend.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He walks off the mountain with a spring in his step, though it’s a careful spring because one eye is covered with bandages and he’s lost part of his depth perception as a result, but that’s not enough to ruin his good mood as he re-enters the village for the first time since he left. He’s even scruffier than last time, his clothes ragged after a year of hard wear and his hair a shaggy mess in spite of his best efforts, but the first place he goes isn’t the tailor or the barber or even the public bath house.

As he walks into the liquor store, the old woman who runs it glances up, looks away again, then snaps back to stare at him, hands flying to her mouth in shock.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says cheerfully, brushing hair out of his eyes, “My name’s Yamcha – told you I’d be back!”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He gets some new clothes and has a shower, then stays at the town inn for the night (and oh Kami, he had forgotten how good mattresses are). He talks to the people, tells them a little of his training and Master Tengu, though some things he leaves out (like grey skin and clawed fingers (like wings and the Final Trick)). Some things… some things you don’t talk to other people about, not unless they have seen for themselves. He’s not even sure if he’ll tell his friends about this, because they’re martial artists, yes, but… they aren’t swordsmen. This is his.

Demonstrating a few forms for the villagers is entirely acceptable, though, and he does tell them of Master Tengu’s fierceness, and his humour, and his kindness, and how, while he’s very fond of fine sake, sometimes he appreciates a bottle of really terrible stuff, of the sort that burns and requires no dignity in its drinking.

And then he borrows a telephone and makes a call.

“Hello, Briefs residence, how the hell did you get this number? Seriously, we’re unlisted and there’s-”

“Hi, Bulma.”

There’s a clatter that he assumes is her dropping the phone, and he takes this as a signal to hold his end a prudent distance from his ear. This turns out to have been a good move a moment later.

“A YEAR, A WHOLE YEAR, A WHOLE FUCKING _YEAR_ , YOU IDIOT, MORON, I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!!!”

There’s silence after that one, and he puts the phone back to his ear to the sound of crying.

“I thought you were dead,” she sobs, “It’s been so long, and I got your letter saying it might be awhile, but you also said it could be dangerous and it’s been so long and- oh Kami, I thought you were dead…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, B, and I’m fine, really I am, I had to stay on the mountain for training and I miss you so much, but I’m alive…”

Bulma isn’t happy that he’s going to be continuing with his training instead of coming home to her, but she’s also so relieved that he’s alive that she can’t get properly angry with him. They talk for awhile, but not too long so as not to run up a huge bill for the kind man who has lent Yamcha his phone, promising that he’ll write and tell her about it in more detail soon. Bulma grumbles that letters are low-tech, but it’s in the tone that she uses when she doesn’t really mean what she’s saying, and then wishes him luck in much more sincere tones before handing the phone to Pu’ar.

“Hi, Lord Yamcha,” his best friend squeaks happily, “I knew you were okay!”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

In the morning he packs his bag, taking extra care to wrap Master Tengu’s feather so that it won’t be crushed, and sets out again. He’s climbed Karin Tower. He’s mastered the sword. Now he has a year and six months to the Budokai – it’s time to see how far he can push the Wolf Fang and to finish his ki attack.

He trains in forests, jungles, and flatlands. Practices with the Azure Dragon Blade, with the Final Trick and without, because he won’t keep his new status long if he lets himself grow sloppy. Cleans up his Wolf Fang style even further, developing a few more variations of his Wolf Fang Fist.

And he creates the Sokidan, a spinning sphere of ki he can send flying, directing its motion with his will and one hand. It’s fast and accurate and, while it lacks the raw power of the Roshi’s Kamehameha or the lethality of the Crane Sen’nin’s Dodonpa, it’s also far more durable than either, able to be used multiple times once created, which works better for Yamcha since he lacks the ki reserves Goku and Tien seem to hold claim to. This attack will make his ki stretch farther and means that, as long as he maintains his concentration and has at least one good arm, he can attack. It requires a little focus to create, as all ki attacks to, but still…

He sends the glowing orb through the air to pulverize a rock and then hang in the air, awaiting his next direction, and he grins. His time truly mastering the sword has probably cost him the title, but swordplay builds muscles and ki reserves just as well as hand-to-hand, and with Sokidan as his hidden ace, he might be able to surprise the guys enough to maybe even make it to second.

In any event, he’s confident in his ability to get past the quarter-finals this time, show them all just how far he’s come. And whatever Goku’s been training for? This time, he won’t have to face it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think Diablo was the only nature kami running around? That would be boring. ;) So, Lord of the Desert, meet the Master of the Mountain. Then again, I wonder if it’s right to call you that anymore, when you don’t know it to be your name, when you can be recognized but cannot recognize in turn, when your cuts leak blood instead of sand. Are you even still a kami…?
> 
> I will slip in bits where the characters teasing each other for sounding like manga or anime characters wherever I can, and I will laugh at my own extremely unsubtle humour every single time I do so, because that’s one of the perks of being an author.
> 
> Upa’s sister gets her name because I couldn’t find out what Bora’s name was a play on, and the closest I could guess (going on the basis that families tend to have similarly themed pun names) is that it’s off of the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights. So we’ve got ‘up,’ ‘northern,’ and ‘north.’ And if it turns out I’m totally wrong about Bora’s name, um… then their mother had a directional pun name and it’s the tradition for their people to pattern names after the maternal side rather than the paternal one! Yes!
> 
> Karin can canonically read minds, same as Tien, Chiaotzu, the Crane Sen’nin, and Roshi (yes Roshi can read minds, he does so with Namu during the 21nd Budokai, be afraid).
> 
> One of the nice things about having Yamcha become a swordmaster is that, not only is he canonically already proficient with one, they’re also shown as being canonically effective weapons even when guns aren’t. Goku is forced to grab his Nyoi-boi when Taopaipai brings out his sword, and we all know about Mirai Trunks’s utter bad-assery. Also, I love swords and sword work; part of this is due to studying Haidong Gumdo, the Korean Martial Art of the Sword, in university for a couple years. My teacher would sometimes tell us that another name for it is ‘Gum-show,’ because it’s a very beautiful, flashy form to watch. I ended up stopping for various reasons, including the fact that I’m just too wary of my hands being hurt to ever give as much dedication to any martial art as it deserves, but I’ve still got my practice sword, remember the weight of it in my hand. Master Tengu and ki blades are my way of honouring an art I deeply admire but am unable to practice. Tengu is the master of multiple types of blade, not just the katana, though that is the type he prefers to use personally.
> 
> Diablo is very strong, even for a spirit/kami of his type, and especially for one of his type that’s off his territory – no other nature kami has ever done what he’s doing now, not to this extent (the strong connection they have to it means they don’t generally leave their territories for more than a day or two at a time, absolute maximum (which is also why he was unaware of certain… let’s call them ‘side effects’ from staying away so long)). And, fun bit of trivia? He’s technically older than Master Tengu, by quite a bit. Also, I didn’t make up the name ‘Azure Dragon Blade’ – that’s the actual name given for Yamcha’s scimitar according to the wiki. Which, you know, the wiki, take with a grain of salt, but a great name which led to a great idea, in my humble opinion.
> 
> Sometimes sticking this closely to the manga is very fun – it meant I was completely free to write this three-year time gap as I liked, for example, which was great! On the other hand, sometimes it means that I have to acknowledge things about canon I don’t necessarily like, such as the fact that, at the beginning of the 23th Budokai, before the Z Warriors all show up, Bulma grumbles that Yamcha took off after his leg healed and hasn’t been back for the whole three years. I’m stretching it a bit that they even did letters or phone calls, because Yamcha isn’t Goku, and three years without a word to his girlfriend or best friend was pushing it a bit to my mind. It’s easy to blame Bulma for being shouty, but there’s blame on both sides for why the relationship eventually fails (reasons that do not include infidelity, as that’s anime-only and, anyway, I- oops! Spoilers! Guess you’ll have to wait! ;P )
> 
> (And if you want to hang out a bit and ask further questions, you can find me over on tumblr, very cleverly disguised as [greentrickster](http://greentrickster.tumblr.com/))


	5. Battle of the Kami

Yamcha has barely used his airbike in the past three years, and it’s fun to be riding it again as he heads towards the Budokai, almost like flying. He stops briefly in a couple towns on his way there – first to get a Turtle style gi made up for himself on a hunch, the next because it turns out the suit Roshi got him to wear to the last Budokai is a bit too short and tight now, which is a surprise – he’d thought he was done growing. It’s also slightly problematic, because he doesn’t have enough money left to buy a new suit, so in the end he settles for some plainer clothes. If he can’t be formal, at least he’ll be tidy. To this end he also gets his hair trimmed; it’s grown quite long during his training, and he finds he can’t quite bear to cut it all off again, because no matter how much he knows Bulma likes it short, he prefers it long. So he gets it lopped to a few inches past his shoulders, the shorter bits in the front tidied, ties it back, and calls it good.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The Budokai is already crowded when he arrives, though there seem to be fewer contestants this year than in previous ones – possibly word spread about the fiasco with the roster after the last one, or maybe everyone’s just hiding from the rain at the moment. He signs his name regardless, catching a glimpse of a few other names he knows as he does so, causing the grin that’s been on his face since he arrived to widen. The others are here already and, if the placing of their names on the list is anything to go by, they just got here recently and thus won’t be too far away.

Chiaotzu is the most distinctive of the three, but he’s also so short he’ll be impossible to spot unless he’s flying or has shot up three feet (and _no one_ grows that fast). It’s doubtful Krillin’s gotten particularly enormous either, so Yamcha scans the crowd for three eyes and shoulders sturdy enough to support a second set of arms-

-and there he is, over by one of the walls, under a wide, conical straw hat to keep the rain off. Yamcha pulls his pack a bit more firmly onto his shoulders as he jogs over, the other two slowly coming into view. From the looks of things, the rivalry between Turtle and Crane is now a thing of the past, at least in terms of the current generations of each school, and he waves as he gets closer.

“Hey! Hey, Krillin, Tien!”

There’s a moment of polite incomprehension before they recognize him (and dang, he didn’t think he looked _that_ different (though, speaking of not different, has Chiaotzu grown at _all_?!)).

“ _Yamcha_?!” Krillin goggles, “Where’d all that hair come from?”

Yamcha runs a hand through it and laughs. “I forgot you’ve never seen me with it long before. Anyway, look at you – a few more inches and you’ll almost be up to my shoulders!”

“Yeah, rub it in,” Krillin grumbles, only half joking, “I’ll bet I’m finally taller than Goku, at least!”

Privately, Yamcha wouldn’t bet on it – their monkey-tailed friend has always been taller than Krillin and there’s no reason for that to have changed now. Still, they all stand together as they wait for the rest of the group to show, chatting about their training in very general terms (they’ll go into more detail after the tournament, when the new moves they’ve all been working on aren’t secret anymore and sharing them won’t mean losing the edge of surprise).

Then Chiaotzu points out that the rain is stopping, Krillin spots a group of familiar-looking people, and suddenly the gang’s all together again. And while Goku’s growth spurt is unprecedented (he’s closer to Yamcha than Krillin in height now (so much for no one growing that fast)), it’s Bulma who truly catches Yamcha’s eyes. She’s wearing make-up and a close-fitting dress and… she doesn’t look like a teenager anymore, she looks like a woman, and if Yamcha’s grown into himself then Bulma’s _blossomed_. Suddenly he wonders if she’ll still want to be with him after all, a thought that hadn’t really occurred to him before. She had said she would wait, but the travel and isolated nature of his training has meant that communication between them was mostly in the form of letters and one-way, him to her. She looks so sophisticated now, so grown-up… what if she sees him and decides she wants someone more like that now, instead of some ex-bandit for whom the city is still, in many ways, unfamiliar territory? He stands very still as she walks up to him, her expression unreadable.

Then she reaches up to grab the collar of his coat (the coat she’d given him before he left (it looks like it’s been through the wars now, but it’s kept him warm)), and she pulls him down into a kiss and oh _Kami_ , he’s missed her…

When she lets him stand back up, her expression books no argument. “Next time,” she says, “You stay still more often in places I can go or you take me with you, because otherwise there won’t _be_ a next time, because three years is too long to wait! Got it?!”

“Got it,” he repeats obediently, but he can’t help grinning as well, because there she is, under the make-up and the poise, there’s that girl who led him out of the desert seven years ago, and he can’t resist grabbing her and swinging her around in a circle, laughing as she yells at him to knock it off, her dress is too short for this, dammit, Yamcha, _Roshi’s here_ , and that last one gets him to quickly set her down again but he can’t stop smiling.

Then Pu’ar apparently decides that that’s enough time for the two of them to reunite because she zips over to latch onto his shoulder and start talking about everything that’s happened since he left and how she’s missed him and she’s been helping out with Capsule Corp security and she missed him and she’s _met_ someone nice and she missed him and she’s been working on getting her shape-shifting even _better_ and she missed him-

He hugs her and says he missed her, too, and she pats at his cheek with one paw.

“You didn’t say the scars were so prominent, Lord Yamcha,” she says reproachfully, “Your poor face!”

“The wounds weren’t as bad as all that,” he assures her, “They just healed this way, and I kinda like ‘em.”

“Whatever,” Bulma moves close and traces one line of the ‘x’ on his cheek with a finger, “It’s funny, but you look more like a bandit now than you did when you actually _were_ one.”

“What’s that?” Tien looks up from where he’s been talking with Roshi, “You were a _bandit_?! _You_?”

Yamcha shrugs. “Hey, you’re not the only one with a less than savory past, Shinhan. I first met Bulma, Goku, and Oolong when they came through Diablo Desert, where I lived, and I tried to steal the dragon balls from them with Pu’ar’s help.”

“ _Diablo_?” Chiaotzu asks, excited, “I’ve heard stories about that place! Did you see the devil that lives there?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s just an old folk story,” Yamcha waves him off, “The only thing that’s particularly supernatural there is the Wandering Oasis. But Pu’ar and me? _We’ve_ got a magic necklace that can summon it, so we basically ruled that desert. I mean, what’s there to fear when you can just call shade and water to yourself?”

“That’s why he’s _Lord_ Yamcha,” Pu’ar adds proudly.

The conversation shifts to the dragon balls and their last adventure, finally able to find out what Goku had been doing between running off to avenge Krillin’s death, killing King Piccolo, and then running off to train with Kami, a crazy tale that they would have all called a pack of lies except 1) They lived it as well and 2) Goku.

Then the announcer calls the contestants to assemble for the preliminaries and it turns out Yamcha was right to get a new gi made, because Roshi didn’t bring new ones for his students this time, declaring that there is nothing more he can teach them and thus they are free to fight under any name or colours they choose to now. Yamcha and the other warriors head off to get changed, politely pretending not to see Lunch wishing Tien good luck, or the pink tint this brings to the triclops’s cheeks.

The sun has come out by this point, warm enough for Yamcha to take off his coat as he chats with his friends on the way to the changing rooms. “I’m kind of hoping to run into Jackie Chun again,” he admits as they go, “I’d like to see how I fare against him now.”

“Why not just ask Roshi for a rematch?” Tien asks, raising an eyebrow at him, “He’s your teacher, I’m sure he’d accept a request to spar.”

“No, not Roshi, Jackie-” the words freeze partway out of his throat as he realizes what Tien’s saying. In fact he freezes entirely, one foot out in front of him in mid-step, as a few key pieces fall undeniably into place. And as they do, he can hear the blood rushing in his ears (it sounds like desert winds carrying sand at lethal speeds). “Son of a bitch.”

“Yamcha?” Krillin asks, looking back over his shoulder at him, “You okay?”

“He **swore** ,” Yamcha growls, voice low and dangerous, “Up, down, and sideways he swore, he must have even gotten someone to _dress_ as him so he’d look like he was in two places at once! He made me look like an _idiot_! And I was _right_!”

Yamcha’s about to go give Roshi a serious piece of his mind, last call for contestants or not, because if there’s anything he hates, it’s being made to look foolish, especially in front of his friends or when he’s in his element, and Roshi has had ample time to set the record straight, but a hand on his shoulder, as immoveable as a mountain, holds him back. He turns to find Goku looking at him seriously. They stare at each other for a few moments while Krillin fills Tien and Chiaotzu in on the events of the 21nd Budokai.

“He’s always got a reason when it comes to martial arts,” Goku says quietly, “Always, and it’s usually a good one. And he got me and Krillin too, remember? That cologne he used clogged up my nose something fierce!”

Slowly Yamcha nods. He’ll let it go for now, but he’s definitely going to be asking the old man about this later.

“If it helps,” Tien says as they start to walk again, hurrying a little now, “He told me just now that he’s not entering this year, because he doesn’t think he’d have a chance against any of us anymore.”

Oddly enough, it does help, enough that Yamcha can grin at Krillin when it turns out all three Turtle students have had Turtle style gis made up. “It appears we think alike.”

Then, as Goku turns, something about his friend that’s been itching at the edge of Yamcha’s mind snaps into a proper thought. “Goku, what happened to your tail?” because Goku has run off without one before, but it’s always grown back by the time he returns. After being told what happened, Yamcha’s not sure how to feel about Kami having taken it. He’s missed the moon and is glad to have it back to an extent that still leaves him somewhat puzzled, but at the same time his friend has lost a _limb_ , has had a limb taken from him, presumably forever (because if God takes something, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s going to stay took). Goku himself doesn’t seem bothered by it, but still…

They don’t get a chance to question him further, though, because suddenly Goku’s gaze goes sharp and he turns to look at something and Yamcha automatically turns to look as well and-

-and it’s not possible. The features are younger, more refined, but there’s only one person in the _world_ that Yamcha knows of who matches the description ‘tall, pointy ears, and _green_ ,’ and last time Yamcha saw _that_ person it had been from a distance, true, but he had been _sure_ he’d seen Goku punching his way through the guy’s chest, and that explosion afterwards had looked pretty definitive, to the point where there wasn’t anything left of the body and-

_\- it’s harder to permanently kill some things than you’d expect-_

Yamcha turns to Tien at about the same time the triclops turns to him and sees that they’re thinking the exact same thing. Then Goku lets out a squawk, because they’ve each grabbed one of his shoulders and are dragging him bodily off to a more out-of-the-way corner (because no matter how shaken they are, they can still tell some things should not be spoken of in public).

“Goku,” Tien hisses, “Don’t tell me, that’s not-” he can barely get the words out and Yamcha can’t blame him, because Tien actually fought King Piccolo, knows first-hand his power and viciousness.

“Something like that,” Goku grins at them, _grins_ , then goes a little more serious, “Don’t tell anyone, ‘kay? No need to start a panic.”

And he looks confident, completely calm and unafraid, and in the face of this Yamcha can’t help but relax just a little, because Goku’s beaten Piccolo once, and they’ve all been training for three years, harder than they’ve ever trained, maybe harder than anyone save Goku himself has ever trained before, and now they know why they’ve been doing it. And while he thinks longingly of the Final Trick and the Azure Dragon Blade, encapsulized and stored in a locker with the rest of his things (because no weapons in the tournament), he’s still got the Kamehameha and Sokidan, and Tien likely has new tricks as well, and he _knows_ Krillin was working on something. They can do this. Whatever happens, they can do this.

Besides, Piccolo seems content to pretend to be just another competitor at the moment, and with his new scars and straight hair, it’s not likely he’ll recognize Yamcha anyway. He shakes his head after that thought – why would Piccolo recognize him _at all_ , they’ve never met before. He pushes these thoughts away and focuses on qualifying instead. Potential end of the world or not, he’s still got some quarter-finals to get past, and a small pouch in his locker with a few senzus left in it that say he can give it his all in the tournament without worrying about conserving his strength for when Piccolo decides to stop hiding.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The Budokai has always been exciting, but this year it feels like it’s really pulling out all the stops. Demon King Piccolo has come back, probably seeking revenge, an assassin by the name of Taopaipai (who it turns out is the man who trained Tien and whom Goku had been under the impression he had killed a few years ago) has come back, definitely seeking revenge, and a pretty girl in a blue cheongsam has shown up, apparently seeking a date with Goku, if Yamcha’s any judge (and, after his experiences in high school, he’s sad to say he is). Chiaotzu is the only member of their group not to make it to the quarter-finals this time due to an unfortunate match-up against Taopaipai, and the Budokai announcer almost has a heart attack when he sees Krillin (understandable, really, considering that Krillin had been dead last time they met).

Bulma, Roshi, Pu’ar, Oolong, and Lunch all gather to wish them luck before the quarter-finals begin, and Yamcha gives Roshi a long look before deciding to confront the old man later. And the pride on Roshi’s face as he tells the three of them to do their best but not get themselves hurt… it’s good to know that part of that pride, and part of that concern, is directed at him.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Tien’s match against Taopaipai is swift and decisive – the triclops was already amazing at the 22nd Budokai, but now he’s phenomenal, and he beats his old teacher with ease, even when Taopaipai cheats with cybernetic enhancements and hidden weapons. It’s going to be amazing to see him go up against Goku again. None of them are surprised that Goku won his match, but the discovery that the young woman he fought is Chichi (yes, _that_ Chichi) is another thing all together (as is the fact that Goku is now apparently engaged).

Yamcha wishes Krillin luck as the younger man heads off to fight ‘Demon Junior,’ then has to bite his tongue, because, of them all, Krillin alone has never seen Piccolo before today – he was killed by one of the demon’s minions before any of them knew what was going on. At most he might suspect that he’s facing a leftover minion, or some minor demon; he doesn’t know who he’s about to fight.

And, at the beginning, it looks like this might not be a problem. Krillin starts off strong with a set of twin ki beams he can direct with his will (and Yamcha grins when he sees it (looks like he wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines)), then lands a couple solid hits. After that, though, Piccolo starts taking him seriously. Krillin puts up an amazing fight, and Yamcha’s stunned when he finally finds out what Krillin ‘stole’ (it was Tien’s flying technique (everyone’s _deeply_ impressed by that (including Tien))), but in the end Piccolo is too much for him, and the short youth concedes. No one blames him – he’s gotten phenomenally strong, but he’s also already died once and everyone can understand why he’d rather back out than fight on in this instance.

Goku is enthusiastic about his friend’s progress, and Yamcha gives Krillin a gentle punch in the shoulder before getting up to go to him own fight, a fight he’s almost certainly going to win – Shen is lucky, but luck can only carry you so far. And then-

He swallows.

And then the next one up to fight Piccolo will be him.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha admits as he walks to the ring, he got lucky in his opponent, because Shen is a middle-aged man with less muscle tone than Roshi and he doesn’t move like a person who has _ever_ practiced martial arts of any sort. He wears hard-soled shoes instead of sneakers or fighting shoes or bare feet like any of the other contestants, and he’s left his glasses on, a move that is not only foolish but dangerous should he get punched in the face.

But the worst thing Yamcha sees is the man’s left hand and the faint band of light skin around his fourth finger. Because it means that this man usually wears a ring there and has for years, and Yamcha somehow doubts the guy is recently single. Whoever he is, why ever he’s here, Shen has a family. He has a family and he’s a rank amateur, and that’s the worst sort of opponent to face, because amateurs don’t know the rules, don’t have years of muscle memories ingrained in their bodies, and there is absolutely no way to tell which way they’ll jump in any given situation. Yamcha is no fool, he knows he’s going to win this – but he also knows how far above an average person he is in terms of strength. Unless he is very, _very_ careful, he’s going to hurt Shen, this man with a family, extremely badly.

And a little voice deep inside whispers that maybe it would have been better to fight Piccolo first and admit defeat than to finally proceed to the semi-finals like this…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He offers Shen the first blow as a courtesy. When all this is over, Shen will at least be able to say he fought in the quarter-finals, fought properly as opposed to simply getting knocked out of bounds or pinned before landing a blow. Yamcha dodges out of the way of the punch, but not by much – to a civilian watching, it will look like Shen barely missed, like he had a chance of connecting. If Shen’s family is watching, it will look good.

But Shen is even worse than Yamcha had thought – he trips over his own feet as he rushes past and, in the flail of collapsing limbs, one leg snakes through Yamcha’s defenses, and a hard-soled shoe digs deep into his kidneys. He clutches his side as Shen scrambles to his feet and oh _Kami_ , that _hurts_ , it hurts and he looks like an idiot for allowing an amateur to tag him like that, and he hates looking foolish, in this setting where he actually knows all the rules, in front of Bulma and Pu’ar and all his friends after three long years of training. But he holds his tongue and his temper. Shen is an amateur and Yamcha already knew the man had uncannily good luck – it’s his own fault, really, and a master can’t get mad at a beginner for this sort of thing.

Still, he resolves to end the match now, rather than let it turn into any more of a farce, and he claims the next blow for himself, planning to knock Shen from the stage with a kick to the chest. It’ll probably leave a bruise, but nothing near as bad as what Yamcha’s going to have, and it will still look good – it won’t be a dishonorable defeat.

Shen ducks at _exactly_ the wrong moment for Yamcha’s dignity (and potentially for his future children), and for a brief moment the world is pain and humiliation and Shen is damn lucky that was an accident because crotch-shots are _illegal_ in this tournament. He manages to get to his feet with difficulty and blusters in the face of the announcer’s amused commentary, but he’s still determined to keep his temper in check, and he does.

Right up until Shen’s cheerful statement about winning the match.

That tears it. Yamcha’s been holding back, he’s been keeping his temper and doing his best to be kind, but he’s also been training for three years and more, and he will not have all his hard work spat upon in this manner. Luck can only carry you so far before skill takes over.

“So confident?” he asks, “Fine, I guess it’s time to fight with all I’ve got, then!”

“Oh please do!” Shen says cheerfully, “Here, I’ll go next.”

Yamcha doesn’t so much see the blow that sends him flying as feel it connect with his jaw, and when he stands, rubbing his aching cheek, the stadium is silent and Shen’s body language is utterly changed. Gone is the bumbling buffoon, and in his place stands a warrior of at least Yamcha’s own caliber.

Shen smirks at him. “You made assumptions about me based solely on my outward appearance. Because of that, you failed to examine my inner power and subtler movements. Now your eyes have been opened, yes?”

Yamcha stares at him, at this man whom he has been trying his best not to hurt, whom he has been trying to treat with respect in spite of the fact that he thought Shen was a novice – and why wouldn’t he make such an assumption? Maybe in a real battle looking for such details are necessary, but this is the freaking _Tenkaichi Budokai_ , why bother hiding your abilities to such an extent in a setting like this?!? But apparently Shen didn’t see fit to treat Yamcha with the same respect, nor any of the other warriors he felled getting to this stage. The ex-bandit was already feeling angry over his small, old embarrassment at Roshi’s deception, but this…

He knew the men in the city were cowards, but he’d thought they had more honour than this.

“Yes,” he says with a grim smile, “As you’ve said, my eyes have been opened… however, I don’t care for the way you did it. If I may say so, you’re a sneak and a jerk. Now I’m going to win this to put you in your place.” Because Yamcha hates to be made a fool of, and Roshi might have had good reasons, but Shen? He’s a valid target, and Yamcha’s going to show him why you shouldn’t take even ex-bandits lightly.

Except he can’t land a hit on the guy. Yamcha’s good, he _knows_ he’s good, but he gets the feeling that, even if he hadn’t divided his training between fist and blade, Shen would still be better. The man is blindingly fast, with impossible strength hidden in that unassuming frame, and even though he’s paying attention now Yamcha _still_ can’t sense Shen’s inner power, no matter how he tries.

“I don’t get it,” he pants as they break apart, “All the work I’ve done, and against you I’m like a child.” And if there is a note of helplessness mixed in with the frustration, well… there is. He’s so angry at this man, so infuriated by his attitude and behavior, but there seems to be nothing he can do about it.

“No, no, you’re actually quite good – I’m really very impressed,” Shen smiles at him, “You’ve got the makings of an excellent warrior. I just happen to be much more powerful – but if you keep training, you should catch up pretty quickly.”

And words like this from a master are usually welcomed or treasured pieces of encouragement, but with Shen’s previous actions they just taste of bitterness and further mockery, especially when the man cups a hand to his mouth conspiratorially and adds, “Besides, just between you and me, I’m not human.”

Yamcha gives him an extremely skeptical once-over, and then raises a pointed eyebrow. Shen just chuckles.

“All I can say is that this isn’t my true appearance – I’ve borrowed someone else’s body for a little while. Besides, you know all about things that aren’t what they appear to be, don’t you?”

And Yamcha grits his teeth for a moment because the tone of that last statement, that tone implies that what Shen has done to Yamcha is deserved. And yeah, Yamcha had held back at first – out of kindness. Out of letting another man walk away with his dignity mostly intact. Out of the sight of a pale band of skin on a left ring finger, and a person who might be sitting in the audience whose opinion could matter more than anyone’s to this man. Shen, in contrast, has made a mockery of Yamcha because he could.

They are nothing alike.

“No idea what you’re talking about, old man,” Yamcha growls, “I’ve played it straight with you from the start.”

“You have, have you?” And Shen has the audacity to raise an eyebrow at him.

Yamcha snorts. “Hey, you’re the one claiming to be something strange. Me? I’m as human as the next guy and always have been.” Shen looks a little surprised at this, but Yamcha ignores it. “Thanks for the advice – I’m not dumb enough to ignore that sort of thing just because I dislike the source – and I’ll keep it in mind. And maybe you’re a little right – I do have one last trick up my sleeve.” He grips his right wrist with his left hand, smiling grimly as he begins to focus. “I had planned to save this for another battle, but I refuse to lose to a jerk like _you_.” And he focuses, drawing his ki into his hand, concentrating it, shaping it, and finally sending it to hover over his hand, glowing, a part of him but not. He smirks at Shen, who’s looking a gratifying amount of surprised right now. “Are you ready?” And he sends the spinning orb of ki flying with a cry of “SOKIDAN!”

The ball of ki is blindingly fast, but Shen’s just a fraction faster, though he actually yelps as he dodges. Frowning in concentration, Yamcha twists his hand, sending his Sokidan hurtling at Shen again, and again the man dodges just in time, the attack plowing deep into the stage.

“Damn, why do you have to be so fast?!” Yamcha snarls as Shen blinks at him, stunned.

“Incredible, I never dreamed you could do that! Now I’m really impressed!”

And now it’s Yamcha’s turn to smirk. “Don’t you think it might be a little _early_ to praise me?” because, for all his talk earlier about paying attention, Shen didn’t see the short, sharp jerk of Yamcha’s right hand after his Sokidan hit the stage, the move that guided the ki ball to almost directly below Shen. Then again, who could blame the old man? After all, most ki attacks, when they hit something solid like the stage, dissipate or are expended.

Most ki attacks.

But not Sokidan.

With a triumphant kiai Yamcha sends the glowing orb crashing up to strike Shen full-force in the chin, and he can’t help a crow of victory as he finally knocks Shen back.

He should have kept his guard up.

He should have remembered how the fight had been going up until this moment, but he is still so angry and the blow is so satisfying, he relaxes for a moment.

And, in that moment, Shen lands, corrects faster than humanly possible, and flashes forward, faster than ever, to slam his elbow into Yamcha’s chest. The air is forcibly expelled from his lungs and for a moment he can’t breathe, his Sokidan dissipating as his concentration snaps, the momentum of the blow sending him staggering back one step, then another, another, and suddenly there is no ground under his foot, only air, and he tries to correct, to catch his balance, but his lungs still aren’t working quite right and it sends the rest of his body into confusion, and before he can do anything else his shoulders hit the ground and he’s staring at the sky, gasping for breath.

“…OUT OF BOUNDS…”

He struggles to sit up.

“CONTESTANT YAMCHA…”

Gets an arm over the edge of the stage.

“…HAS BEEN DEFEATED…”

Shen is picking up his glasses. His nose is bloody. This is the only sign that he’s been hit at all.

“CONTESTANT SHEN ADVANCES TO THE NEXT ROUND!”

He has lost.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha does not accept the hand Shen offers him to get back onto the stage, but he does offer a proper bow to the man. He doesn’t like him, but _technically_ Shen has broken no rules, and Yamcha will be gracious in defeat if it kills him. When he straightens, Shen is watching him, peering over the tops of his glasses with a serious expression and-

_-and for a moment all he can think about is how much he misses his territory-_

-and then Shen blinks and straightens his glasses, and Yamcha rubs his head, confused. He’d had a thought or something. It had felt important, but it’s gone now. He nods once at Shen, then heads back towards the contestants’ area, because now that he’s been defeated there’s no reason not to have his sword with him, just in case (because he still has _one_ trick no one knows about). Shen falls into step beside him as he goes.

“Forgive me,” he older man says quietly, “When I saw you, I made certain assumptions as to your nature and motives, and in doing so did us both a great disservice. I sincerely apologize.”

Yamcha looks at him in surprise, because there is no trace of superiority or smugness in the other’s tone now, only honesty. “I… guess we both judged on appearances, then.” It’s as close to forgiveness as he can get at the moment, with his pride still stinging.

Shen glances at him with a half-smile. “We did indeed. I do hope this hasn’t ruined your will to fight. You have the makings of a fine warrior, and your Sokidan was extremely impressive.”

The older man also gives Goku a nod and – for some reason – a wink as he passes by and Yamcha rejoins his friends, and Yamcha can’t help but feel he’s missed something important as Shen walks away. However, as he receives his friends’ condolences and support, he cannot for the life of him figure out what it is.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He returns from the contestants’ area and joins his friends at the edge of the wall dividing the waiting area from the stage just in time to see Tien and Goku flip onto the stage in unison, and he exchanges a grin with Krillin, because this is going to be a hell of a fight.

And it really is. The fight against Taopaipai had given a glimpse of how far Tien has come, but only a glimpse, because Tien Shinhan is a genius martial artist, a prodigy, and it shows.

However good he is, though, however great his genius, Goku is a level ahead of him, something that becomes all the more apparent when the younger fighter takes his weights off, even if Tien’s Multiform technique throws him for a minute. Yamcha and Krillin are both left a little slack-jawed at that technique, to be honest, and Yamcha glances at his shorter friend.

“No offense, Krill, but I’m starting to think I’m the only normal human in our group.”

“I’d be offended anyway, but you really kinda are,” Krillin replies.

“Like any of y’all ‘re normal,” Chichi mutters from where she’s watching with them, though her expression as she watches Goku is more than a little dreamy.

Even having to face four Tiens at once doesn’t work on Goku for long, though, because the teen hasn’t just gotten stronger in the past three years, he’s learned how to truly use his mind and strategize in battle, rather than just charging in head-long or letting his enemies pound him to learn their techniques as he used to.

“That was so close!” Krillin says when Tien and Goku rejoin them, and Goku laughs cheerfully before going to talk with Chichi. Tien watches him go, then gives the other two a slightly bitter smile.

“It wasn’t close at all – even after a battle like that, Goku looks as though he has been on a light run at the most, and I don’t think we’ve seen his true power yet – he didn’t even have to call upon the Kamehameha to defeat me.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure, you’ve left me in the dust for the moment,” Yamcha admits freely, because Tien is amazing at fighting in ways Yamcha can’t even begin to comprehend.

The triclops raises an eyebrow at him. “I also haven’t been dividing myself between multiple arts.” He gives an amused smirk when Yamcha starts at this, jerking a thumb at his face. “How many times do I have to tell you Turtles, there are no other eyes as sharp as mine. You carry yourself differently than you did three years ago – what have you been up to that you aren’t telling us about?”

Yamcha stares at him a minute, then grins ruefully at having been spotted. “This and that.”

It’s an evasive answer but, for the moment, he’d rather keep his time with Master Tengu to himself. They probably won’t be needing a blade after all, from the way things are shaping up, meaning it would have been smarter to focus purely on hand-to-hand and his ki attacks, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his choices, because he’s glad to have met that old crow, and it has always felt good to have a sword in his hand, and-

-and it’s incredibly petty, but it helps a little, seeing how far his friends have come, seeing the measure of their talent, and knowing that he has something he’s better at than them. It soothes his pride, because until he met Goku he’d never lost a fight and he misses those days, the days when he was the best. It makes it easier to congratulate his friends on their triumphs and really mean it, rather than simply paying them lip service. Maybe he could have caught up with them, maybe not, but this at least is his, and he’s keeping it.

The fight between Piccolo and Shen is announced before Tien can press further and what Yamcha’s been up to is suddenly irrelevant because, in the humiliation and anger following his own fight, and the excitement and awe of Tien and Goku’s, Yamcha had forgotten who Shen’s next opponent would be, and from the look on Tien’s face the triclops had, too. And, jerk or not, it wouldn’t be right to let the old man go into this fight without knowing what he’s truly up against.

However it appears they needn’t have worried, because when Krillin spots him Shen is talking with Goku, though he walks out calmly enough when the announcer calls for him a second time.

“What were you guys talking about?” Krillin asks as Shen takes the ring, and it’s an innocent question, because Krillin still doesn’t know who Demon Junior really is, but it’s still one Tien and Yamcha are both very invested in the answer to.

“Ah, nothin’ much,” Goku grins, leaning on a divider, “I’ll tell you after the tournament.”

“Does Shen know who he’s facing?” Yamcha asks quietly as the announcer begins the match.

If anything, Goku’s grin gets a little wider. “Probably better than we do!”

…apparently Goku has not lost his knack for answering a question and leaving you with more questions than you started with…

The match begins and, okay, _wow_ , Shen is in an entirely different league, better than any of them could have _dreamed_ possible, and there is no _way_ Yamcha could have won against this man, even if he’d trained nothing but Wolf Fang Fist for the past three years, hell _Tien_ wouldn’t be able to touch him in a fight, maybe not even Goku!

Yamcha vaguely wonders if the Budokai has always been this lively or if things only started going crazy when their group started attending (and if it _has_ always been this crazy, how on _Earth_ has the tournament managed to keep going for so long)).

Things only get stranger as Piccolo and Shen start speaking in a strange language and then… Shen uses the Mafuba. Yamcha doesn’t even have time to wonder how the hell Shen learned a technique that, as far as anyone was aware, only Tien and Roshi know, because things get even more impossible as Piccolo _reverses the Mafuba_ , turning it back on Shen, and as the man spins, caught in the vortex, a being that looks like King Piccolo emerges from him and shouts to Goku, something about cleansing the world and not being afraid to die before it’s sealed in the very bottle that Shen had intended to put Piccolo in.

The man who was Shen, or whose body Shen was using, it seems, scurries off the stage when he wakes up, looking very confused. Piccolo swallows the little bottle with a smirk when he passes Goku and the youth demands it back, then Roshi shows up demanding to know what was going on and the truth comes out. Yamcha had thought Demon Junior was Piccolo, been almost positive, but to hear ‘yes, it’s him, reborn and stronger than ever,’ is still a terrifying thing indeed.

Oh, and the being that got sucked into the bottle in his stead?

Yeah, that was Kami.

Shit.

And it looks like, in spite of their vow, in spite of their training, once again Yamcha, Tien, and Krillin can do nothing but stand back and watch as Goku steps up to save the world, because Kami is God and Piccolo is a demon and Goku is in a league of his own and them?

They’re only human.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Why d’ya think he waited fer the tournament to come after Goku?” Chichi asks as Goku walks into the ring, not confident for once but still determined. To Yamcha’s surprise no one else answers her, so he does.

“The Budokai, it’s Goku’s territory,” Yamcha says quietly as he watches his friend, “Piccolo wants to show off his power, defeat the person who killed his last incarnation on that person’s own ground, the place where they’re strongest.”

Roshi raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s very astute.”

Yamcha just shrugs. “Seemed obvious to me.” Because Yamcha’s always thought in terms of territory, and if there’s one place in this world that is truly Goku’s, it’s this stage. For all that he was defeated the other two times he was here, this place belongs to Goku in a way it may never belong to another person, and something in Yamcha recognizes that.

The ensuing battle is a fight and a half, maybe more, and each time it looks like Piccolo and Goku have hit their maximum power, they pull out a new level. Piccolo’s true identity is revealed to the crowd at large and most of the spectators flee, though Bulma, Lunch, Pu’ar, Oolong, and, impressively, the announcer hold their ground. Hell, the announcer just hops over the barrier that divided the out-of-bounds area around the stage from the crowd and continues his commentary!

Then Piccolo grows to gargantuan size and stomps on Goku and it’s too much – Tien rushes towards the stage, offering aid, Krillin just a step behind, and Yamcha a step after him and already reaching for his sword, but his fingers haven’t more than brushed the capsule before Goku turns them down.

Because if they help him, Goku will be disqualified from the tournament, which apparently still has designs on winning.

…

…Yamcha doesn’t get how that boy’s mind works sometimes, he really doesn’t.

Anyway, Piccolo is tricked, Kami is rescued and released, and Goku continues to manage (somehow) in the face of Piccolo’s terrifying power, also continuing to refuse help. Part of Yamcha remains confused and frustrated by this, and he can tell Krillin and Tien are as well – they’d all vowed that Goku would never have to do this again, _never_ , they’ve all trained so hard to prevent it happening…

At the same time, though, even as he leaps into the hole Tien has created to protect them all from Piccolo’s latest attack, a small part of him understands. Goku’s protecting his territory, it’s his right to demand single challenge. And, for a moment, it looks like Goku has won…

Then he’s hit in the back by Piccolo’s attack. It’s a terrible battle from that moment on. Goku is bruised and bloody, he has a nasty wound through his right pectoral, and his limbs are broken. No way to dodge, no way to block, no protection-

Even Goku can’t survive this one.

But miracles follow Goku like stray cats follow a fishmonger, and once again he does the impossible. In the heat of battle, just before Piccolo strikes him down for good, he figures out how to fly, and lands the decisive blow.

The battle is won. Goku is the champion of the Budokai, Savior of the Earth twice over, and Yamcha rushes over with the rest of the group to offer congratulations.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

They all meet at a restaurant later to finally have their victory meal. Goku and Chichi are there as well – turns out they hadn’t gone that far after all.

“I figured if I didn’t leave, Kami’d keep bugging me to take his job,” Goku grins easily, “But I don’t think he’s allowed to leave heaven long, so…” he shrugs and everyone laughs.

“Though, I gotta admit, I’m kinda glad Goku turned him down,” Krillin whispers to Yamcha, who nods. Goku’s heart might be pure enough for the job, but the thought of Goku as the Guardian of the Earth… it doesn’t bear thinking about, it really doesn’t.

Meeting God had been strange. Kami is a much more jaded, cynical being than Yamcha would have expected, not to mention pretty sneaky and secretive if today’s events are anything to go by, and Yamcha had avoided him until he left. He’s not sure if he feels better or worse knowing the true identity of the person he lost to, realizing it was an impossible match, considering how shabbily ‘Shen’ treated him (and all his opponents in the preliminaries as well). It _does_ make that hit he landed more satisfying than ever, though, and, well… he had said that Yamcha had the potential to catch up to him, and there’d been no reason to lie about that…

“Looks like you’re the last one of us stuck earthbound,” Krillin continues at a more normal volume, giving Yamcha a light punch in the shoulder, “I’d have thought you’d have figured it out by now.”

“Guess I’ll have to work on it,” Yamcha grins, focus shifting to take in the whole group. Tien’s still filling Chiaotzu in on everything that happened after Taopaipai almost killed the pale teen, and Yamcha’s pretty sure only about half the conversation’s happening out loud. Chichi is snuggled up next to Goku and chatting happily with, of all people, Roshi, who is seated across from her and behaving himself for once. Goku’s eating a bit, but he’d had that senzu earlier so it looks like he’s going to walk out of the restaurant with most of his prize money still in his pocket (which will be helpful, considering that he’s about to get married and all). Oolong is listening to Tien, and Krillin is talking to Goku and the announcer from the Budokai (they’d invited him along on the grounds that he stayed and witnessed the final battle with them, so he’s earned his place at the table this evening). Lunch is sitting on Tien’s other side, asking the occasional question, which the triclops answers a little awkwardly.

As for Yamcha, he’s got Bulma sitting next to him, occasionally rubbing his ankle with one foot, and Pu’ar has fallen asleep on his shoulder. All his friends are alive and together, and the food is good, and he laughs, because, against all the odds, they’ve survived, the world is at peace, and life is grand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the title – because kami are sort of like gods and I think I’m very clever.
> 
> And that’s it for Dragon Ball! Next we have the four-year time gap, and then we’re starting on Z! Woo!
> 
> Yamcha and Tien cornering Goku about Piccolo is another shift from canon, wherein Yamcha doesn’t recognize him, changed on account of the fact that, as mentioned, Yamcha saw him both on TV and at a distance and is not, in fact, stupid. Piccolo is very distinctive even within the DBZ world, I think that was really more just Toriyama overlooking that detail since Yamcha didn’t actually get to fight.
> 
> The fight between Shen/Kami and Yamcha is one of my favorites, because it’s one of Yamcha’s cooler ones, even if he does lose in the end. I mean, he makes Kami work for his victory and actually lands a solid hit on him – that’s pretty awesome! At the same time, Kami’s behavior in this fight really annoys me, because his actions are very disrespectful, both to Yamcha and to all those he fought to make it to the quarter-finals. Martial arts relies heavily on misdirection, yes, but there’s a difference between that and making an utter fool out of someone who is openly coming at you with all they have in a tournament setting. Also, you’re not supposed to wear hard-soled shoes when practicing martial arts – try that at a dojo and you will get your ass firmly escorted off the mats. At the same time, I don’t see Kami as being a truly bad person – more set in his ways and more Machiavellian than is generally deemed acceptable in a protagonist, and he does tend to be remorseful when he’s shown that less drastic measures are sufficient for his goals.
> 
> Though in this universe, at least, Kami does have a reason why he’s treating Yamcha thusly – it’s because he’s under the impression that Yamcha’s doing the same thing he is, pretending to be mortal, but with the intention of showing off rather than saving the world, which Kami disapproves of. “Why doesn’t Kami know what’s going on with Yamcha?” Well, that’s actually Diablo’s fault. To be specific his phrasing when he said “you and yours” while banning Piccolo Daimao from his territory. In his defense, Diablo had no way of knowing that ‘yours’ included Piccolo’s ‘good twin,’ Kami, who would have probably been just starting his term as Guardian of Earth at the most back then – he might not have even realized that Diablo Desert had a kami until they met at the Budokai, the world being a big place and nature kami being relatively common in the divine hierarchy. Does this excuse his behaviour towards Yamcha? No, not really, he was still being a sneak about it, but at least he had a relatively decent motivation. Technically he did in the manga, too, since he was originally trying to get the jump on Piccolo to reseal him, but kinda blew his cover there.
> 
> As to why he hasn’t told Yamcha about Diablo or anything yet… basically he’s not allowed to. No one can force a kami of his sort off of - or onto - their own territory, and if they leave, they must find their own way back because, as mentioned, they're not really supposed to be gone for that long in the first place. You break the rules, you pay the price, you know? That’s why Master Tengu and Karin didn’t say anything either. Basically, congrats everyone who’s going quietly crazy about Yamcha still not knowing what he truly is – Kami has joined your ranks. Have fun with that.
> 
> Actually, the Shen-Yamcha and Piccolo-Krillin fights are both pretty awesome to me, because in them Krillin and Yamcha unknowingly took on the DB equivalents of god and the devil, and each forced their opponent to take him seriously. Which, dude. That’s kinda badass, especially in retrospect.
> 
> Finally, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, balancing power and skill levels in DB and DBZ is hard. Especially when I’m trying to keep Yamcha in-character as the weakest of the Z Warriors (save Chiaotzu, who is canonically weaker)while also emphasizing that he’s still a very skilled warrior and not that far behind them (because he’s not – he’s generally pretty close to everyone else, even according to the official power level data). At least in this version I can fall back on the explanation “he’s actually go a few thousand years of training behind him – he’s just never had a proper teacher or gotten any real strength training or learned how to use ki before” as to why Yamcha’s able to stay pretty close in skill level to the others at the moment, in spite of splitting his focus.
> 
> Also, a quiet reminder that reviews are deeply appreciated – they are the only thing I am ever going to get in return for writing this and I love hearing what people think!


	6. Out of the Park, Out of the House

Yamcha goes home with Bulma to Capsule Corp, and it’s strange being back – he’s been away for almost three years, after all, and he only stayed for two months last time. Other than going to high school and that year with Roshi, he’s mostly been out on his own, traveling the world and training, and now he’s back in his old room with its pleasantly pale blue walls and the couple posters he’s put up, clean but distinctly unlived-in. It’s… odd, being in one place, living within walls, being so near other people all the time. The city is interesting, but it’s also loud and busy and crowded – it’s going to take some time to get used to this territory again.

Bulma helps him.

They go to places together and she shows him everything she didn’t think to when she was sixteen and didn’t have a chance to when they were twenty. There’s parks hidden amongst the bustling buildings, some so large that you can almost forget you’re in a city if you go in deep enough, and the out-of-the-way shops that Bulma loves best for shopping (she doesn’t actually care for the mall all that much – says it’s full of inferior merchandise and inferior minds (Yamcha gets the feeling that there’s a story behind this, but doesn’t press)). She helps him find the local markets, and watches fondly as he bounds from stall to stall examining the produce and chattering about what sorts of meals he can cook with this or that or the other, and reveals the concept of the ‘cookbook section’ of bookstores to him, then grumbles that he’s going to ruin her figure if he keeps cooking like this (but never in serious tones).

There is also the yelling that happens when she finds out he’s been carrying the Azure Dragon Blade everywhere in capsule form, but it’s followed by the acquisition of a license so he can do so without getting arrested. He actually finds and acquires several lesser ki blades at a market Bulma likes to go to for parts – the vendor might not know what they are beyond excellent swords, but Yamcha recognizes the watery blue tint to the metal that Master Tengu taught him to look for, the signature of a ki blade. Bulma shakes her head and laughs and warns him not to try and fill the house with swords (the way she’s heard some guys do), and he promises he won’t, simply acquiring sheathes for them and placing them on top of his dresser in his room – easy to access for when he he’s in the mood to use a different sword style for the day (scimitar is his specialty, but he’s used other types in the past, and sometimes it’s fun to mix things up a bit).

Pu’ar shows him things as well, and introduces him to Chae, a little yellow tanuki with orange markings and an extremely bushy tail. She’s a photographer, and the two met about a year ago in a café – Bulma says it was the cutest thing she’s ever seen.

“Sorry I couldn’t come see you compete,” Chae says as he shakes her paw, words rapid-fire and slightly arch for some reason, “But I had, like, a commission I needed to finish and the deadline was the next day.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yamcha says with a grin, which fades under Chae’s puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing really, just – Pu’ar always calls you ‘Lord’ Yamcha, and I had you pegged for one of those grand-standing types, not, you know,” she waves one paw as she searches for the word, “Likeable.” Then she must catch the look Pu’ar is shooting her, because her ears go down in a rather guilty expression. “Er, not that Pu’ar speaking well of you didn’t, like, help your case or anything. Sorry.”

Yamcha snorts, but Pu’ar had warned him that Chae has a tendency towards bluntness over tact, so he tries not to take it too seriously. “That’s a leftover from our wild youth. She doesn’t _have_ to call me that and she knows it.” He gives Pu’ar a pointed look, but the little cat just sniffs and lets it roll right off her.

“Lord Yamcha is Lord Yamcha,” she says primly, “And that’s all there is to it.”

The conversation goes surprisingly well after this rather rocky start. Chae warms up to him fast when she learns that he and Pu’ar really do have a strong friendship and Yamcha finds he can’t be too upset over someone else being worried about his best friend like that. Pu’ar, meanwhile, is unsubtly relieved that the two of them seem to be getting along and gets adorably flustered at a gently teasing comment Yamcha makes about her having found a nice girlfriend. Chae sniggers into her third almond-mocha decaf at this (caffeine is the nectar of the gods, but it’s something she says she saves for times of need (which is probably a good thing for the world, because she’s energetic enough as it is, of the focused sort that is terrifying in its strength and efficiency)). However she also shoots Pu’ar a definitively fond look as the little cat batters Yamcha’s shoulder in embarrassed, impotent annoyance, so it’s probably good odds that his comment won’t be a joke for long.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

One evening, a few weeks after he’s gotten back, Bulma takes Yamcha by the hand and leads him to her main bedroom, where she closes the door, leans flush against him, and kisses him, hot and sweet and inviting, and this time he doesn’t say no.

Their first time is not the stuff of legends, or even particularly elegant, because while they’re both aware of the _theory_ , the fact remains that neither of them has ever actually _done this_ before. So it’s a little awkward – heads get bumped, hands get knelt on. However the end result is good enough that they give it another shot, and this round goes better. Afterwards they lie on the bed together, catching their breath and not quite ready to get dressed again just yet. Bulma has her head tucked under Yamcha’s chin, and he’s got an arm curled around her hip, and it’s nice.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Once Yamcha’s adjusted to actually _being_ in the city again, he starts to get restless. The other times he was here there was school to attend or injuries to recover from, but now all there is to do is train and, while he does do that – and enjoys it – somehow it’s less satisfying here among tall buildings than among rolling grasses or rocky mountains or desert sands. So he decides to get a job. He’s always been independent, and the concept of relying on the Briefs’ generosity for _everything_ sits ill with him, no matter how much the elder Briefs assure him that it’s okay (though Bulma gives him an extremely approving look when he expresses interest).

This is how he finds out that apparently high school is good for something after all, because no one wants to hire a guy with no previous experience and only one year of formal schooling to his name, no matter how willing he is to learn and to work hard. He’s about to fail his who-knows-what-number job interview, this time for a construction site, when luck shifts in his favour. The site foreman is about to turn him down when another worker sticks his head in the door.

“Hey, Mr. Puter, do you have a-” he stops as he spots Yamcha, then addresses him. “Hey, aren’t you the kid who worked the Iguana Island project a few years back? Training with the old hermit, whatsisname.”

“Master Roshi?” Yamcha supplies, straightening up, “Yes sir, me and my friend Krillin.”

The worker looks interested now. “You been keeping up your training?” at his nod, the man turns to Mr. Puter. “Grab your hardhat and come out here for a moment, Com – you’ll want to see this.”

The worker, who introduces himself as Dozer, Mr. Puter, and Yamcha all go out to the building site, where the foundations of a house are being laid. They stop next to some large sacks of cement.

“Okay then,” Dozer gestures at the cement, “Your name’s Yumcha, right?”

“Yamcha, sir.”

“Right,” Dozer nods, “Could you carry a few of these cement bags to the mixer over there? One of the idiots dropped them off way over here instead of next to it.”

“Dozer, you can’t just-” Mr. Puter starts to protest, but Yamcha is already shrugging out of his jacket and removing the tie Bulma had told him to wear, folding them neatly on the ground.

“Sure.”

He walks over, picks up a bag, gets a feel for the weight and balance of it, then puts it over one shoulder, tosses another on top, gets a feel for that, then tucks a third under his arm, on the basis that he’s not confident his can balance another on his shoulder and the one incident he’s had with a burst bag of cement was… memorable. In any case, he walks over to the mixer, careful to stay out of the way of other workers on the site, sets the bags down, goes back, makes another two trips. By the time he walks back to Mr. Puter after carrying the last few sacks, the entire site is silent. “Anything else?”

Mr. Puter is staring at him wide-eyed while Dozer looks smug. Finally the foreman manages to clear his throat. “Kid? You’re hired.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

 Yamcha enjoys his job. They have him doing a lot of lifting and carrying and such, good strength training that also keeps him active. As time passes, and the other workers get used to him, his nickname on the sites becomes ‘pack mule’ or just plain ‘mule’ for all the hauling he does. He laughs and goes with it, and begins to make friends – the men and women who work there are pretty decent for the most part, though they tease him for his long hair and good looks sometimes, saying he’s too much of a pretty boy for construction work.

At first he protests that he’s not pretty and points out that he’s plenty tough, and though they concede the tough part (hard to argue when he’s carrying loads normally meant for heavy machinery), they don’t budge on the pretty, and he finally accepts defeat. He doesn’t have Tien’s broad shoulders and powerful build or Krillin’s deceptively soft look that a seasoned fighter can tell hides iron-hard muscles underneath – he’s longer and leaner, and can still easily pass for twenty in spite of his scars. The fact that his hair goes wavy again after a trip to the beach with Bulma doesn’t help (it had happened almost as soon as he set foot on the sand (Bulma said it was probably something to do with the humidity)).

So he rolls his eyes and grumbles ‘only compared to you guys,’ focusing instead on the pleasant burn in his muscles from working hard and reminding himself that most of them are just being friendly.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Things are not perfect.

Sometimes he and Bulma fight. He has tendencies towards impulsivity and speaking without thinking that get him in trouble. Bulma can be rather jealous and tends to have a very clear of how the world _should_ be, and she gets cross when reality deviates from it. Sometimes the people he meets or works with are genuine jerks, with no good-natured humour in their comments at all. Sometimes being in the city instead of the wilderness chafes so badly he wants to scream. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll ever, _ever_ be able to talk to women his own age like normal people.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s all worth it.

But then, sometimes he helps Bunny in the kitchen, and they spend hours inventing – not making but _inventing_ – meals that have the rest of the household bowing at their feet (though he’s only allowed to make tea once (after which all three Briefs band together and ban him from making tea for anyone but himself or Pu’ar ever again, on the grounds that he does Bad Things to tea)). Sometimes Krillin and Master Roshi come to visit and spar (even if they _do_ catch him in the ruffled apron Bunny gave him (Yamcha’s still not sure if it was an _extremely_ well done joke or if she genuinely thinks that this is how aprons are supposed to be, but it’s a very effective one, so he uses it)). Sometimes he goes on dates with Bulma, and occasionally she’s on time, but just as often he has to fetch her from her lab, because she really _is_ prone to scientific epiphanies while she’s ‘making herself pretty,’ as she terms it. Then they go on to laugh and talk and kiss and enjoy their time together. Sometimes he sits with Pu’ar on the roof of Capsule Corp and they look at the stars and moon together.

And then he knows, yes, yes, it’s all worth it.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

It’s been about two years since the 23rd Budokai when things start to change. Later, he’ll look back and wonder if events would have gone better if he’d chosen differently, or if it all would have still fallen apart, or if the point where it began was somewhere else entirely. Whatever the truth is, it’s the most obvious point where the end began, and it goes like this:

Yamcha’s walking by one of the city parks during one of his days off. Bulma’s busy with paperwork (because even beautiful geniuses have to deal with everyday matters from time to time), and Pu’ar’s on a date with Chae (and he _so_ called it (not that it was that hard to call)), so he’s on his own and feeling a little bored when he spots a group of people doing some sort of training. Occasionally a random passerby will stop and join them for a little while, then move on.

Joining in wouldn’t be a difficult work-out for Yamcha, or even enough to make him breathe hard, he can tell at a glance, but training with other people can be fun, if only for the sense of comradery, so after watching for awhile he walks over to join in as well. It’s not hard, just a lot of throwing and catching balls and stuff. Some of the people throw decently well, but it’s nothing for someone who competed in the Budokai, and the balls are easy enough to catch, though aiming is a touch more challenging. At one point, one of the guys asks him if he’d like to give batting a try and offers him a baseball bat and, oh, that’s what’s going on, they’re practicing baseball (he’d thought the balls looked vaguely familiar, but Yamcha’s never really followed sports outside of martial arts). They must be a neighborhood team or something, out training for a game.

The bat feels strange in his hands, awkward and unbalanced compared to a sword, and it takes him a minute to get the feel of it. After he does, one of the guys who’s better at throwing tosses a ball at him.

Yamcha’s not used to doing this kind of thing, isn’t quite sure how to regulate his strength for it, so he swings and-

Oops.

“Ah shit,” he grumbles, scratching his head as the ball sails out of sight towards the city, high above the nearby trees, “Sorry about that.” He pulls out his wallet and removes some zenii from it, “I think that should be enough to cover the loss? Anyway, I better go make sure I didn’t hit anything.” He gives the money to the guy who’d thrown the ball, and who is now giving him a rather bug-eyed look (shit, maybe that ball had sentimental value or something, now he _really_ needs to find it), then runs off, speeding up once he reaches the trees and trying to work out in his head where it would have landed.

A few days later, he’s called into Mr. Puter’s office at work, and two unfamiliar men are waiting there. One points excitedly and says, “Yeah, that’s him!” and the other asks if Yamcha has ever played baseball before.

“Uh, just once.”

“For how long?” the man asks, intent.

“A few hours – look, is this about the other day?” Yamcha rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, “I found the ball again, eventually, but I realized after that I didn’t know anyone’s name and everyone was gone by the time I got back. The ball’s at my home – I can get it for you after work if it’s that important.”

The man who’s been talking swallows and says he can keep it, and would he be interested in playing some more?

And it turns out that it wasn’t just some neighborhood group doing some casual training, but a professional team that started small and still likes to keep in touch with the community, hence occasionally using that park to run drills. And they want him to join, showing him a paper with his potential salary on it if he starts this season. Yamcha looks at the paper, looks back at them, and asks if they’re joking. They say they can offer him a bit more if his potential is as good as it had seemed the other day. He stares at them in shock for a moment, then back at the paper because that is more money than he’d make for winning the Budokai by quite a bit.

But money has never interested him that much, and his current job pays well, with the added advantage that he likes the work. He hands the paper back and says thanks, but he’s not interested.

Mr. Puter asks the men to excuse them for a minute. When they are gone, the foreman turns to Yamcha and tells him that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and not to be an idiot.

The men come back and offer him the paper and a contract. He takes both and asks if he can show them to someone who understands this stuff better than him. They tell him training camp starts in two weeks, so don’t take too long, but otherwise fine.

Bulma says it’s a solid document when he shows it to her, no loopholes or tricksy bits, and that it’s a very exciting prospect, and how glamorous it will be to date a known athlete (as opposed to a mostly unknown athlete as he currently is). He signs the contract, and it’s not until it’s too late to change it that he realizes he’s spelt his name ‘lonely soul’ rather than ‘simple pleasures’ as he usually does.

And that’s how Yamcha becomes the newest rookie player of the West City Taitans.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He needs to learn the rules, of course, and how to bat properly, and the various throws. Needs to learn how to hit a target with a ball or a bat instead of a bullet or a sword, but he’s a quick study, especially when it comes to athletics of various sorts. Yamcha has always liked pushing himself, seeing how good he can get, how far he can go, what his limits are and how long it will take to break them.

And this is why he doesn’t like baseball.

Because these guys? They’re brilliant athletes, but they’re nothing compared to the Budokai crowd, let alone the group Yamcha’s used to running with. Drills that leave the rest of the team gasping for air barely get him warmed up, fast balls look slow compared to Tien or Goku moving flat out, and in everything he has to hold back, to be less than he is, because for these men this game is their life, the thing _they_ have trained for years to be good at. And he doesn’t want to step on their dreams, because he knows how demoralizing it can be to train your hardest and have some unknown come along and treat you like a joke.

He’s still the best player on the team. That’s sort of what happens when you arrive able to do things like run faster than the human eye can track. Some of the other players give him a hard time about this, but most of them don’t. The Taitans are a close-knit team – they don’t do a lot of trades, and their rookies tend to stick with them. Most of them see Yamcha as a valuable addition, though they do tease him about his number, in spite of his protests that he doesn’t watch sports, he really didn’t know the manager was joking when he handed Yamcha the 00 shirt (in the end he just keeps it as his number and joins in the other guys making as many terrible jokes and puns as he can think of regarding it).

However, the big problem is that, even if he trains with the rest of the team during the day, he’s still got energy to burn by the time they’re done, which means he ends up doing more vigorous training after practice in order to keep up his skills, and practice his forms, and be tired enough to sleep at night, which means less time with Bulma, which she doesn’t like.

She does like his uniform, though.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she grins, tugging at his shirt, “You look amazing in yellow!”

“I don’t like wearing it,” he shrugs, uncomfortable, and he doesn’t, especially not this much. Half the time he looks down and his clothes surprise him, like he’s expecting to see something else, though he doesn’t know what. It makes his head hurt, makes him feel like he’s forgotten something important, like he’s missing some vital piece of himself…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

When the season finally starts, he’s put on batting and field, called up for either depending on the strengths of the opposing team. They don’t use him as much as they could, like they’re afraid that, if they do, they’ll wear out whatever makes him so good at this, and thus he spends a lot of time in the dugout. Yamcha cheers for his teammates, is honestly happy for them when they do well, but he’s also bored out of his skull, because he’s a martial artist, not a baseball player, and this lifestyle doesn’t suit him.

So he practices extending his ki awareness, because that had been a good trick of Goku’s at the 23rd Budokai. The construction sites hadn’t been safe places to practice, but here he quiet literally has nothing better to do, so often he closes his eyes and tries to see without them. And, as it turns out? He’s really good at it. Being aware of an area larger than himself, of beings other than himself at this level – it feels very natural, almost like this isn’t a new skill at all but simply an old one he’d forgotten about and is just now remembering.

Flying, however, he still has yet to figure out.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He’s been fighting with Bulma more lately, because about halfway through the season he’d become well known enough to start getting fans, fans of both sexes, and Bulma’s grumpy about it. He protests that he didn’t ask them to start enthusing over him, that he doesn’t _want_ them to do this, that the first time he’d left the locker room to find some waiting for him, he’d dashed straight back in and plastered himself against the door as a human barricade, face scarlet blurting out “No one told me I’d have to deal with _girls_ ” when the remaining guys had asked him what was wrong.

The team’s still giving him a hard time for that, actually, and Bulma refuses to believe that he doesn’t secretly enjoy his female fans’ attention.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Dr. Briefs and Bunny throw another Cross Ball this year, and Yamcha attends with Bulma again. His dress is more fitted this time, with a tight bodice and sleeves he has to be careful not to rip, all made of a grey velvet that Bulma says makes him look regal, and he lets her put his hair up, since it’s so long anyway. He’s actually looking forward to the Ball this time – the last one ended up being so much fun, and hopefully this one will be, too.

And it is. Bulma looks great, as always, this time in a tux a few shades darker than his dress, and they laugh together as they spin around the dance floor. It would have been nice if some of the rest of the group could have come, but no one knows where Tien, Chiaotzu, or Lunch are, Goku and Chichi hadn’t responded, and Krillin had said ‘no’ in a tone of polite that translates “not over my dead body in a million years even if you paid me.” Even Chae and Pu’ar already have plans for a quiet night in.

Still, it’s a good time, and Yamcha ends up pulling Bulma away from the dance to come and look at the night sky from his spot on the roof, and then gets drawn away himself off to Bulma’s bedroom, where his dress gets a bit torn in its removal, but that’s okay, because he didn’t like it anyway.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

His first pay cheque is more money than he’s ever had all at once, and he’s incredibly not sure what to do with it, so he goes to talk to Dr. Briefs, on the basis that the guy has plenty himself and thus probably has a better idea than hiding it in a capsule somewhere, like he would have as a bandit or on the road.

Dr. Briefs takes him to an investment company, one that the Briefs have used for years and trust with a good chunk of their money, and helps him set up the beginnings of a small stock portfolio, because for all that the old man truly defines the term ‘eccentric,’ he also built Capsule Corp from the ground up and thus is not entirely clueless as to the practical matters of life.

Yamcha thanks him, and also pays as much as Dr. Briefs will accept of what he figures he owes in back rent for living at Capsule Corp. After that he sets aside a small portion of his following pay cheques for living expenses, sends the rest on to the bank he's already signed on with and the investors, and otherwise doesn’t think about it much.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

By the end of the first season, Yamcha’s sick of baseball and looking forward to ending his contract and going back to being the pack mule of the construction site.

Which is why he’s surprised when the team manager slaps his back and says thanks for signing on for another season, he’d been sure Yamcha was going to quit. It turns out Bulma renewed his contract for him.

“It’s easy work for you and the money’s good,” she says when he confronts her about it, “I don’t see what your problem is.”

“I don’t like doing it,” he responds in an entirely reasonable tone of voice.

She rolls her eyes. “Suuuuuure you don’t, same as you don’t like having all those girls drooling after you.”

“But I don’t,” he protests. It falls on deaf ears, as usual. “Besides, I thought you wanted to see more of me – I’ll have to go to training camp and stuff if I do this!”

She says they’ll work it out.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

They don’t work it out.

Yamcha is busy with baseball and his martial arts, and Bulma herself is getting more involved in Capsule Corp as she begins to take on more of the responsibilities in a gradual transition of power between her and her father that will eventually leave Bulma as company president and Dr. Briefs happily retired. When Yamcha and Bulma do manage to get together they fight as often as not. In the past he’s let her get away with all sorts of things simply because she knew the city and he didn’t, but he’s tired of having his protests ignored and is pushing back at last. Bulma likes being in charge, though, and this new development ends up leading to worse fights.

All in all, he ends up spending a fair portion of his time with Pu’ar and Chae, over at the apartment they’ve gotten together, a cozy place decorated with Chae’s pictures and various odds and ends Pu’ar has gathered over the years. They’re ridiculously in love with each other, in a way that makes him warm to see because they’re just so happy, and he tries to remember if he and Bulma were ever like this, wonders if they can be again.

(Wonders, in a very quiet voice, deep inside of him, if he really wants them to be).

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Holy _shit_ , you’re Quarter-Finals Yamcha!”

Yamcha pauses partway through putting his stuff in his locker, then turns to his teammate in confusion. It’s three-quarters of the way through his second season with the Taitans and he’s not the newest player on the team anymore, though he still wears his 00 shirt. Two of the older players retired, leaving openings for a couple of fresh, younger guys for whom this is what they’ve been dreaming of doing their whole lives. One of them, a shortstop named Basse, is staring at him now with his mouth open. “What?”

“Yeah, what’re you talking about?” some of the other guys come to see what the racket is, too.

“Quarter-Finals Yamcha!” Basse repeats, “My sister and dad are both _huge_ martial arts buffs, and they went to see the 23 rd Budokai and dragged me with them,” he points at Yamcha, “He made it to the quarter-finals in the last three tournaments! I thought you looked familiar when I signed on, but I didn’t place you until I saw that shirt!” he gestures at the bright orange tank top with a black turtle silhouette that Yamcha’s just tugged on (a joke gift from Chae, who thought she was funny). Basse turns back to their teammates again, animated and excited, “He’s an amazing martial artist, one of the best!”

Baybru, one of the team’s star hitters, snorts. “Pull the other one, kid, Yams isn’t part of that crazy crowd, right, Yams?”

“Like any of that stuff’s real, anyway,” a midfielder adds, “I’ve heard some of the broadcasts of that thing – I mean, flying? Energy beams? It’s all just smoke and mirrors, nothing real to it. People can’t actually _do_ that kind of thing.”

“It is so real, I’ve seen it,” Basse protests, but the others are starting to laugh and brush him off.

“So, what, some demon is really what destroyed the stadium?”

“A kid turned into a giant monkey?”

“There was a grudge match between some assassins?”

“It’s true,” Basse retorts, though he’s starting to look frustrated and a little desperate, “Tell them, Yamcha!”

Yamcha stares back at him, and realizes that all he has to do to maintain his cover is grin and laugh – of course he’s not that guy, of course the Budokai’s fake.

_‘You’re really Muten Roshi, aren’t you?’_

_‘My eyes have been opened, but I don’t care for how you did it.’_

The others don’t do much as he grips his right wrist with his left hand, but the laughter dies down as his right hand begins to glow.

“Sokidan.”

He says it quietly, but he may as well have shouted, the room’s so quiet, and the blue-white orb emerges to hang over his palm, obediently awaiting his command. It forms more easily than it used to – he’s been practicing, and he didn’t make it full-sized this time (in fact, it’s actually about the size of a baseball). He looks up at Basse and the others.

“It’s all real,” he says quietly, “As real as me.” And, looking around at his teammates, at the awe and slight fear in their faces, he knows he’s lost something, and that it’s a good thing he didn’t want to play a third season. He allows the Sokidan to dissipate, gathers the rest of his things, and leaves. No one says a word, and they part to let him through without prompting. He stops by the manager’s office and tells him that he’s going to retire after this season, and then goes home.

On the surface, not much changes for the remaining games – Yamcha still plays at his usual level of excellence, supports his teammates, is supported in turn. But underneath it all… He’s not part of the team anymore, and everyone knows it.

On his last day with the Taitans, Basse comes up to him, nervous.

“Thank-you for telling,” he says, miserable but determined, “I didn’t mean to ruin- I mean, you’re one of my sister’s _heroes_ , and I got so excited-”

“Hero?” Yamcha interrupts, frowning, “Why would she admire me? Every public match I’ve ever participated in, I’ve lost.”

Basse looks at him like he’s crazy. “Besides the fact that you’re one of the eight strongest known people on the planet? You’ve made it to the quarter-finals of the Budokai three consecutive times – no one’s ever done that before. Generally people who lose at that stage give up, but you keep going back. She admires your determination.”

“Oh,” he rubs the back of his neck, unaccountably embarrassed, “Thanks. And don’t worry, you didn’t ruin anything – I wasn’t going to stay past this season anyway.”

They shake hands, he walks out the door, and his career as a baseball player is officially over. He’s not going to miss it.

And maybe, now that he’ll have more time on his hands again, things will get better between him and Bulma…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Later, he doesn’t remember how the fight started. He thinks it was over something small, but maybe it wasn’t. He’s pretty sure Bulma doesn’t know either, but they both remember how it ends.

Things have been getting better – or, at least, they’d seemed to be. But apparently they were both just ignoring the issues they had, because what should have been a small fight becomes an inferno, with both of them flinging every scrap of ammo they have at each other, and finally it comes up, the key sore point between them.

“Bet you miss it already,” Bulma jeers, “All those girls in the stands cheering and bouncing for you and everything!”

“Like hell I do!” he snaps.

“Like hell you don’t,” she snaps right back, “You’re a man, aren’t you? Hell, for all I know you were with _dozens_ of girls while you were on those so-called training missions of yours!”

And he freezes, because this, this is a line she has never crossed. She’s accused him of enjoying the female attention he receives, but never has she implied infidelity, and it hurts more than he’d have thought possible, that after all this time she could possibly think this of him. Which is why he says what he does next.

“I can’t even _talk_ to most women, how the fuck am I supposed to hook up with them?!” he snarls, “And I’m not the one with wandering eyes! Face it, Bulma, if anyone was going to cheat in this relationship, **_it would be you_**!”

Because she looks, he knows she does, sometimes she even comments, and he doesn’t always like it, but he also has always known, _known_ , that even though she looks she will never, ever touch, not as long as she’s in a committed relationship, so he’s never called her on it, but to have that kind of faith in a person and discover that it isn’t returned… it hurts more than anything he can remember.

Bulma turns white at his words, and for a moment all is still, and he wishes he could take them back, all but the small part of him that is darkly satisfied.

“Get out,” the words start as a whisper, but with each repetition they get louder until she’s screaming. “Get out **get out GET OUT**!!!”

He gets, because while part of him is remorseful, part of him is still furious, and he’s had enough.

When he comes back, hours later, calmer and potentially able to talk things over, his access card to the Capsule Corp compound doesn’t work anymore, and there’s two boxes by the gate labeled “Scar-face’s shit.” He doesn’t try to get in by force or stealth, though he knows he could if he wanted to, because he also knows just how worked up Bulma can get when she’s properly furious, not to mention just how long she can hold her head of steam, and they’ll _both_ need clear heads if they want to salvage anything from this mess. So he takes his boxes (and, even knowing they’re mostly full of capsules, they seem so small to hold almost eleven years of life), goes to Pu’ar and Chae’s place, and asks if he can borrow the couch for a week.

He figures it’ll be enough time to let Bulma cool down, and it will give him time to sort out his own priorities as well.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

As it turns out, it’s a week they don’t have, because six days later a fat little man with a katana comes by the apartment and tells Yamcha that he’s been summoned to train with Kami, because Goku is dead, really, truly dead this time, not just thought to be, and, also, Goku’s an alien, and in a year some other aliens like him are going to come and try to kill everyone. He doesn’t have time to say good-bye to Bulma, he barely has time to say good-bye to Pu’ar, who is just coming home from work as he finishes packing.

“Please,” he adds as he hugs his friend, “Tell Bulma I’ll come to see her as soon as I can, and we’ll talk?”

“Okay,” Pu’ar says, patting his cheek with one paw, “But you promise me you’ll come back from all this safe, okay?”

“Of course,” he grins, giving her an extra squeeze, “Don’t I always?”

She gives him the sort of unimpressed look only cats can really pull off. “No new scars, no broken bones, no missing limbs.”

“No new scars, no broken bones, no missing limbs,” he promises obediently.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha takes his airbike to Karin Tower (the guy who came to get him – Yajirobe – offered to drive him, but Yamcha turned him down (his bike is faster, and the last thing he wants at the moment is to spend so much time trapped in a car with a stranger (he’s pretty sure Yajirobe’s relieved at his refusal, too))). It takes him a few days to get there, and he’s the second-to-last to arrive, though he’s impressed with himself for being able to climb to the Lookout in one day, in spite of having to cut back on his training time in the past two years due to baseball. Tien, Krillin, and Chiaotzu are already there and running kata when he pulls himself over the edge and looks around for the first time, and Kami is waiting for him.

“Thank-you,” the old god says, “Of all your group, I was least certain that you would answer my summons.”

Yamcha raises an eyebrow, panting a bit in the thin air, then realizing what he’s doing and purposefully slowing and deepening his breaths. “Who passes up an opportunity like this, or turns his back on his home when it needs him?”

“One with a grudge against the summoner, perhaps?”

“I think I can get over being embarrassed like that for the sake of the Earth,” Yamcha says drily, and Kami chuckles and leads him to join his friends.

Two days later, Yajirobe finally shows up, and training begins in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Chae’ from ‘chai,’ to follow the theme of shape-shifters have tea-pun names.
> 
> For all my readers who ship YamBul, and who are now staring at me with faces that say “Please, please no, Trickster, our ship has suffered enough, please don’t hurt it again,” allow me to say this: sometimes things get worse before they get better. Also, I have plans. Such plans. For many things, actually – this fic is honestly something of an insane spider’s web with me sitting in the middle and cackling. I’m not joking about the cackling, either, that is a thing I do in real life, and, let me tell you, I sound like a freaking lunatic. Mine is not an elegant laugh. Very enthusiastic, though.
> 
> Seriously, though, when we first see Bulma during Z, she’s really upset with Yamcha for some reason (which is never given in the manga), loudly proclaiming that she and everyone else is better off without him, and it’s indicated that it’s common for the two of them to fight. Her reaction feels a little extreme even for her, though, so I decided that the fight she’s just had with Yamcha was bigger than normal.  
> …  
> …I didn’t like writing that fight. I hate that sort of thing, in fiction and in real life, but unfortunately it was necessary, regardless of my personal comfort. So, minor spoiler, don’t expect a lot more scenes involving arguments of that scale. In regards to the whole ‘infidelity’ thing, that’s not actually part of the manga – it’s not even part of the original anime, it was something added when the show was first dubbed into English due to the dubbers being unfamiliar with the characters and making decisions based on minimal information regarding them. And given that Yamcha’s unable to talk to the majority of the female gender and generally characterized as an extremely decent human being otherwise… yeah. No.
> 
> It’s never mentioned what Yamcha does when he’s not onscreen in the manga unless it’s training – as far as we’re told, he could simply be Bulma’s kept man, and it wouldn’t really be a stretch to assume this. I decided to do my own twist on the baseball career the anime gave him, though, as it worked well with my purposes. It was interesting having that conversation about the Budokai among the team, too, spawned by the fact that the Budokai doesn’t seem to be well known outside of certain circles at the beginning of the series, and how easy it is for Hercule to convince people it’s fake. Also, yes, I did make up the nickname ‘Quarter-Finals Yamcha,’ because I figure he’s probably gotten at least a little notoriety from all that stuff.
> 
> If the pace feels somewhat rushed, don’t worry, we’re going to be slowing down again now that we’re on Z, which is also where I start sticking even closer to canon and showing more of the on-screen scenes (partially because there were fewer things I could reasonably skip in Z, it being a slightly less gag-oriented series, and partially because, let’s be honest, y’all are probably going to care more about inaccuracies or deviations in Z than in DB (though I’ve done my best to be as accurate as possible in both, except for a few places I tweaked the story to make it stronger)). Honestly, I had fun with Z. Yes, past tense – you guys might be about to start it, but I’ve written to almost the last chapter of the manga as of this AN. One year in-universe and I’ll be writing the epilogue chapters. For those who aren’t familiar with my writing style, I write everything out by hand first, then type it up and edit it as I go. These six chapters took up approximately one writing book. 
> 
> Z has taken up another seven as of the moment.
> 
> Yeah, like I’ve been saying, this is gonna be a long one. You have been warned.
> 
> Z was so much fun, though.


	7. The Training of Heaven, the Battle for Earth

Training on the Lookout is intense and varied. The focus is, naturally, hand-to-hand combat, as that is Kami’s favoured style and thus Mr. Popo’s as well, but they are also given time each day to develop their skills as they see fit in private. Yamcha knows Krillin is working on some truly impressive ki attacks, if the size of the explosion the other day is anything to go by, while Tien focuses on his power and ki reserves. He’s not sure what Chiaotzu’s up to, though it seems to involve a lot of meditation, and he’s pretty sure Yajirobe’s using the time to sneak food or naps. Yamcha himself focuses on his bladework – this isn’t the Budokai, after all, who’s to say weapons aren’t allowed?

In addition to all this are more esoteric lessons – meditation, breathing exercises, ki sensing (which Yamcha has a smug lead on compared to the others), how to form barriers around your core identity to protect it from psychic attacks or general degradation… Kami is particularly insistent on Yamcha mastering this last one for some reason, which is weird because, aside from his issues with Bulma, Yamcha is perfectly aware of who he is. He’s Yamcha, master of the Wolf Fang, disciple of the Turtle Sen’nin and Master Tengu, ex-desert bandit, ex-baseball player, the normal one of the group – he’s not particularly complicated. Whenever he tries to explain this, however, Kami gets a thousand-yard-stare that probably penetrates time and space, so Yamcha gives up protesting and settles down to mastering the techniques.

Kami also teaches them about some fairly random things which are nevertheless interesting, such as the three-eyed clan Tien is likely descended from, times in the far past when dragons roamed wild as opposed to appearing only when summoned, and the spirits of the land, lesser kami that look like men and women and beast folk and all sorts of creatures, but who are really meadows or waterfalls or forests, and for whom the landscape that created them is merely an extension of themselves, for truly they are one and the same.

Yamcha can see how all this interests the others (notable exception Yajirobe (who honestly doesn’t seem much interested in anything)), but Yamcha himself prefers to swap recipes with Mr. Popo if given the option – those, at least, will be applicable to the real world when all this is over.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The day belongs to Kami and Mr. Popo and training, but the night belongs to the Z Warriors, though no one can remember when they started calling themselves this, or why. Yamcha thinks it had something to do with being giggly from exhaustion (and lack of oxygen) during one of the first weeks, and then no one being willing to own up to it afterwards (though personally Yamcha suspects Tien (because no one else’s poker face is that good)). At first having the nights free had meant next to nothing – they’d all been so tired by the time the sun set that no one could think about anything more than maybe a shower before bed – even remembering to eat supper had been tricky. However as time passes and they grow stronger (and none of them had _dreamed_ they could get _this_ strong), they begin to have energy to do other things, though these activities rarely go too late. Training starts at dawn, no matter when you went to sleep.

He’s not too sure how the idea of a sing-along came up, but he blames Krillin, because he knows for a _fact_ the noseless little twerp likes karaoke. Chiaotzu is cheerfully game, but fortunately Tien sides with Yamcha to help him squash this plot in its tracks.

“I’m surprised you sided with me,” Tien says to him afterwards, “I’d have pegged you for being as bad as those two.”

Yamcha waves him off. “Nah, I’ve got a terrible singing voice. Bulma-”

And he stops, because this is the first time he’s thought about Bulma in ages and, all of a sudden, he realizes that he misses her. He misses her _so much_. Yes, they were fighting, yes, things were bad, but still. He misses her, and the urge to go sort things out right now is so strong it’s almost physical. He swallows and gamely finishes his sentence.

“Bulma always yelled at me when I sang.”

“What happened with you two, anyway?” Krillin asks, looking over at them, “She really wasn’t happy with you last time I saw her.”

He shrugs, looks away. “We had a bad fight.”

“But you two fight all the-”

“A _bad_ fight,” he repeats, and there must be something in his face or voice, because Krillin doesn’t protest again, simply asks.

“Did you make up with her before you came here?”

Yamcha shakes his head. “Didn’t have time.”

Krillin whistles. “That’ll take some getting used to – you two’ve been dating as long as I’ve known you guys. So you’re really, you know, over?”

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. When he’d first come here, he probably would have said yes, they were done, but now… he doesn’t know what he wants. A family, yes, always… but does he want it with Bulma? He’s not sure, not sure of anything beyond the fact that he doesn’t want to leave things as they are, yet doesn’t want to lose her entirely. He runs a hand through his hair, unhappy and confused. Krillin comes over and punches him in the arm.

“Hey, don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. After all, you know Bulma better than any of us at this point!”

Yamcha doesn’t say that that’s part of the problem, but he thinks it might be.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Four months into the training, and Yamcha still can’t fly. Neither can Yajirobe, but that’s beside the point – Yajirobe can’t even do ki attacks, he’s not a good basis for comparison. It’s really starting to bug Yamcha, though, because everyone else figured it out _ages_ ago – hell, Goku figured it out in the middle of a life-or-death battle for the _world_ (then again, he’s not that great a basis for comparison either (because he’s _Goku_ (and also apparently an alien (but mostly because he’s Goku)))). And there’s a part of him that _insists_ he can do this, he is capable of flight. Granted, it’s also the part of him that generally insists he should be able to beat up anyone on Earth with ease and is quietly convinced that he’s immortal, but in this instance it feels safe enough to listen to it, because Mr. Popo and Kami also say he’s capable of learning, and they’re somewhat more reliable. He can jump like anything, even in his weighted clothing, but, no matter how he tries, he’s always pulled inescapably back to the tiled courtyard of the Lookout.

“Maybe you need an extra push?” Krillin suggests as they catch their breaths after sparring.

“A push?” Yamcha wipes his forehead – even he’s a little sweaty right now, and it takes a _lot_ of exertion to make that happen with him.

“Yeah, you know,” Krillin shrugs, “A better reason or something, so you really _need_ to learn?”

Yamcha stares at his friend for a moment, and he doesn’t know what it is, but something in him snaps – out of annoyance or frustration, whatever – but he suddenly grins at Krillin and Krillin is opening his mouth to say something, a worried look on his face but he’s not fast enough, he can never be fast enough because while the guy’s stronger, Yamcha has always had him beaten for _speed_ and he’s running now and Krillin’s shouting and Tien is too, and Tien may be fast but he’s too far away, everyone’s too far away and he can’t catch them but they can’t catch him either and then the edge of the Lookout is _right there_ and with a whoop he leaps off-

And now he has two options – hit the ground and die or learn how to fly and live, and part of him is screaming that this is the dumbest thing he’s ever done, what was he _thinking_ , but that part’s not helpful so he pushes it away, closes his eyes and pushes away everything but his ki and his heartbeat and the wind rushing past his face…

…and he gets it. Somewhere between heaven and earth, something finally clicks and fall gives way to rise, he’s rising under his own power and it feels like _freedom_.

Krillin and Tien meet him in the air on his way back up.

“You insane bastard!” Krillin yells at him, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Were you thinking _at all_?” Tien snaps, “You didn’t even take your weights off!”

And Yamcha nods and apologizes, because they’re both pale and it takes a lot to get Krillin to call someone anything worse than ‘idiot’ or ‘jerk,’ and it’s obvious that he really scared his friends with this one. Back on the Lookout Kami chews him out as well for being reckless, and Yamcha nods contritely but inside he’s laughing because he’s alive and he can fly and, for the moment, life is grand.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The night sky is amazing on the Lookout, full of stars, especially without the moon (and when Yamcha had found out Piccolo had blown up the moon it had taken Tien, Krillin, and Chiaotzu sitting on him to stop him from climbing right back down the Tower and _murdering_ the demonic bastard (though when they’d asked him why he was so upset he’d been unable to explain (they’d also had to sit on him when he found out exactly who Piccolo is currently training (because Yamcha doesn’t _care_ what the ex-demon king said, surely Gohan could have just come and trained with them (it takes Kami to convince him that this is for the best (and even then he’s still grumpy about it (not, to be fair, that the others are any happier about the situation, just less impulsive than him)))))). Sometimes the four of them sit out at night and stargaze.

“The sky’s so big up here,” Chiaotzu marvels, staring up with his legs dangling over the edge, “Crane School was in a hilly, woodsy area – you could see the stars if you climbed a tree, but not this many, not even during new moon!”

“I know what you mean,” Krillin agrees, leaning back on his hands, “The temple I grew up in was in the mountains, and it’s different at Kame House, with the ocean there as well.”

“It was like this in the desert,” Yamcha murmurs, sprawled on his back, hands behind his head, half asleep. “I remember lying in the dunes like this sometimes, watching the stars…” he laughs quietly, “They’ve moved a little bit since I was a kid, though.”

They don’t comment on it at the time, but the next day Tien asks him what he’d meant, about the stars moving.

Yamcha shakes his head, puzzled. “Sorry, Shinhan, I must have been letting my mouth run or something. Maybe I was talking about how the stars look different in different places? I dunno.”

Tien points out that Diablo Desert and the Lookout are in the same hemisphere, and thus should have the same constellations, but also grants that Yamcha’s eyes hadn’t been tracking properly by that point (and, really, it should be no surprise this guy has excellent night vision), so he probably didn’t know what he was talking about. Then Mr. Popo comes and has them doing drills again, and Yamcha forgets about it.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Training with Kami is grueling but rewarding, so it comes as a surprise when, seven months into it, he tells them they’ve learned all they can from him and he’s sending them out to train on their own.

“You are masters in your own right,” he says firmly, “You do not need further guidance on how to train and… perhaps it is foolish, but I believe you will do better spending these last months within the world you will be fighting for, rather than cloistered away up here.”

He does offer them one last piece of advice – locations they should go that will be to their best advantage to train in. Yamcha rolls his eyes and waits to be sent to the desert, since he’s always done his best training on sand (as Kami is probably well aware), but here the god surprises him. It is Tien and Chiaotzu who are sent to the desert, Krillin to the jungle, Yajirobe to stony hills, and Yamcha himself to a cool, rocky set of lakes without a speck of sand in sight.

“These places are in opposition to your natures,” Kami explains, “And thus will give you the best environment to force you to excel.”

They thank him for his training, wish each other luck, then scatter, heading for the places Kami has told them to go.

Well, almost all of them head for their new training grounds.

Yamcha has a quick stop to make along the way…

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He considers just flying up and tapping on her window, but in the end uses the intercom by the gate. He won’t ruin his chances because he approached it wrong.

It’s not exactly surprising when Bulma lets him in, but it is a relief. She takes him to a spare room so they won’t be interrupted, one they’ve never been in together before that he can remember, and which thus has no past history tangling in its corners. Bulma leans by a window, her arms folded, and Yamcha stands with his hands in the pockets of his gi (he’s always ‘fixed’ his so that they at least have small ones (pockets are useful)). Neither of them says anything for a few moments. Then Bulma speaks.

“You’re like water, or that sand you used to trail everywhere,” she says quietly, “It feels like the more I try to hold onto you, the more you slip through my fingers. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, equally quiet, “Ever since I first came here with you, I’ve done my best to prove that you’re the one I want to be with. I- I don’t know what else to do. And… I’m sorry. About what I said, at the end there.” Regardless of how true it had been, it was a cruel thing to say and he regrets giving voice to it. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

Bulma snorts. “How? I mean, you were right, I do look, constantly. How can you be so sure that I wouldn’t?”

He shrugs. “I just am.”

“I wish I could be. I wish I could trust like you do.” She runs a hand through her hair (he idly notes that she’s growing it out again) and sighs. “We used to get along so well – how did we get so messed up?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

“Me either,” she looks over at him, bites her lip, looks away, looks back, “But- I don’t want it to end here. I’m sorry, too. Can- can we maybe, I don’t know, try talking?”

“Sure,” he gives a faint smile, then follows her to sit on the room’s sofa, not too close, but not at opposite ends, either. And they talk, still quiet, about fears and old hurts and problems, but, more importantly, they listen to each other. For the first time, Yamcha feels like his discomfort with unasked-for female attention is really heard and recognized. For the first time that he’s heard, Bulma admits to being self-aware of her jealousy, and to the fact that she doesn’t much like that part of herself but is unsure how to change. They talk a long, long time, conversation slowly shifting to what they’ve both been doing for the past seven months, and when Yamcha finally stands it’s only because the shadows in the room are growing long.

“I should go – I need to keep training.”

Bulma nods, stands as well. “Good luck. Come tell me about the fight when you’ve all won? Your keycard will work again, if you’ve still got it.” She kisses him on the cheek and he holds her for a moment before leaving, and as he goes he feels hopeful, because, whatever else they are, whatever sort of relationship he and Bulma end up with… it looks like it’s not too late to save everything. Whether they’re a couple this time next year is still open to wild speculation, but, at the very least, they won’t be enemies.

And that’s a good thing to know.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Training in the Lake Country is draining – physically and spiritually. Yamcha doesn’t _mind_ water, per se – rivers are good, sitting on the beach is nice, rain is frankly awesome, but… he doesn’t like going _in_ the water. He learned to swim with Roshi, yes, but he’s never liked it and he’s not good at it – so much water at once, it tangles his senses and drags on his limbs, making him awkward and uncoordinated. Plus, he can’t float. Just straight up can’t do it. Lie on his back and swim, sure, but he has to keep moving or he goes straight down.

There’s also the fact that he’s a desert boy, used to the dry heat, and here everything is cool and damp and misty. It’s beautiful, granted, with a serenity and mystery he can see Krillin enjoying, or maybe Bulma (because, for all that she’s an unrepentant city girl, she’s told him that some of her best ideas have been the result of flying out to spend a day alone with her thoughts in the wild). The training’s good, too – it’s a real workout to move swiftly when you’re knee-deep in water and he can feel his ki rising, his strength increasing…

He hates it here so much.

So. Much.

Seriously, he can’t think of anywhere he wouldn’t rather be, except maybe an arctic area and even that’s a toss-up. There’s just too much water here, in the lakes, in the ground, in the air, and once he’s done he’s not coming back unless there’s no other choice. Though he seriously doubts the Earth is going to be put under a threat of this level again in his lifetime, because, honestly, how likely is it for this sort of threat to humanity to happen again? You know, ignoring the fact that Piccolo’s already done just that. Twice. Seriously, the Earth had damn well better stay saved this time.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha sighs a little the day he realizes he’s moving freely in spite of his weighted clothes, though he’s known it was coming. The last thing Kami had done before they scattered was increase the weight of everyone’s gear – it wasn’t the first time he’d done it, this is the natural outcome of training with weights. Still, progress is going to be slower from here on.

Out of mild curiosity, he pulls off one wristband and drops it on a nearby rock, which results in two things: his arm feeling like it’s just going to float away, it’s so light, and a crack in the rock. He puts the wristband back on, more than a little impressed with himself – he’d known the stuff was heavy, but this…

He chuckles a little to himself, because his first thought is that if the Budokai was still going on (as opposed to having been cancelled until sufficient funds have been raised to rebuild the stadium (freaking Piccolo destroying _everything_ )), he’d definitely make it past the quarter-finals now, barring a match-up with another Z Warrior. Then again, looking at his record, he’d probably just run into someone even _more_ amazing – it simply doesn’t seem to be in the cards for him to go any farther than that.

‘Quarter-Finals Yamcha’ indeed.

He straightens his wristband a little, then picks up the Azure Dragon Blade from where he’d set it down, grinning a bit. That’s okay. Maybe he’ll look into some sword tournaments when this is over instead – after all, it’s not really fair to claim to be the best without trying his skills against the competition, now is it? And he’ll leave the weights on, too – they’re not quite as useful now that he’s fully adjusted to them, but it’ll be a hell of a lot better than training without.

The next day is torture, and he’s grumpily chewing on his words. ‘Used to the weights?’ Ha! It must have just been a good day or something, because he’d swear the things are heavier than ever-

He pauses at that thought, thinks it again, then, on a hunch, returns to the rock from the previous day and drops the same wristband on it, a bit to the left of yesterday’s crack, and-

-and the new crack is _noticeably_ wider and deeper. It’s not just him, his clothes really _have_ gotten heavier! He stares for a moment, stunned. Then he laughs, because these clothes came from _God_ , why _shouldn’t_ they have unusual qualities? He pulls the wristband back on again, grinning broadly now because this is going to be so useful…

He takes a moment to look up at the sky in the direction of the Lookout, then, on a whim, cups his hands to his mouth and shouts, “Good trick, Shen, you old bastard! Thanks!”

Then he laughs again and goes to practice his forms under one of the waterfalls.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Yamcha doesn’t know _exactly_ how long it’s been – he’s been keeping track of the days, carving grooves in one of the rock walls nearby, but he’s also pretty sure he missed a few. What he _does_ know is that it’s just a few weeks shy of the given year and two incredible power levels just entered his range. His ki sense had still been too underdeveloped to pick up Raditz’s arrival, but this… he swallows, then quickly slips off his weighted shirt, wristbands, and shoes, switching them for the normal ones he’d worn to Kami’s Lookout and stored in a capsule ever since. Now he puts the weighted gear in that same capsule and takes off, heading towards the ki signatures that can only be the saiyans – one large and bloody, the other vast and colder than ice. It’s almost enough to make him hesitate; he’s never felt anything like this before. Then his resolve firms. He never met Raditz, but he remembers hearing the man had far outstripped Goku and Piccolo in terms of power, even combined, and he had still been defeated. Now there’s two saiyans, but there’s five Z Warriors (including Yajirobe), plus Piccolo and Gohan (and that kid _better_ be okay or so help him, he’s going to do something impulsive), and Goku will be coming soon, probably stronger than ever with the special training he’s received. So, in total, it will be eight against two.

Not very sporting, perhaps, but when it comes to the fate of the Earth, those are odds Yamcha _likes_.

Plus, he’s pretty sure another two weeks in Lake Country would have driven him insane. If Bulma wants to come here sometime then he’s going to draw her a map, because, short of something _else_ showing up and threatening to wipe out all of humanity, he’s never coming back here, no matter _how good_ the training is.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He’s the last of the group to arrive save Goku and Yajirobe, landing moments after Tien and Chiaotzu. It’s a rocky area, the soil as much sand as dirt, and he feels his confidence returning as he touches down. The saiyans’ ki signatures are practically demonic, but then, the Z Warriors have their own literal demon, for the moment at least.

Turns out? They aren’t the only ones.

The saibamen are… grotesque. It’s not their form (or, more accurately, not _just_ their form), it’s their ki, it feels…twisted, wrong, _unnatural_ , and it grates on Yamcha’s senses. He gladly steps up to take Krillin’s place in the line-up – the saibamen don’t look or feel too tough, for all that their ki is twisted, and, while he doesn’t especially _want_ to die, for Krillin death will mean death, he’s already used up his second chance. They can always bring Yamcha back if need be.

But it won’t be necessary. Between the unbridled power of the removed weights and the security of sandy ground beneath his feet, it doesn’t feel like he can lose this, and he leaves his sword capsulized in his pocket (this isn’t the Budokai, but certain principles do still apply (such as ‘don’t waste your best attacks on weak opponents’ (especially not when stronger ones are standing close enough to observe them)). Yamcha smiles faintly as the selected saibaman steps forward to face him because finally, _finally_ , they’re getting to help, _he’s_ getting to help, at last they can do more than just sit back and watch Goku save them all.

It doesn’t take long to get a sense of the creature – it’s weaker than him, slower, less skilled, and he doesn’t give it a chance to use its acid. The thing feels strange – a bit like a vegetable, but also slightly chitinous, and warm (unnatural, _unclean_ ). It disgusts him, its very existence offends him on a deep level that he doesn’t take the time to understand (because the middle of battle is not the place for philosophy or introspection). Blasting it to the ground, feeling its ki flickering, fading as it slowly dies, brings a vicious satisfaction, and he turns to the group with a smirk.

“These things aren’t as fearsome as they look – leave it to me, I’ll clean up the rest on my own.” Because he can’t remember ever wanting to kill something this much, and because this way Krillin and Chiaotzu won’t have to risk themselves in a battle whose only true purpose is to buy time until Goku gets here.

The shorter saiyan – the one who radiates coldness like an inverted sun, smirks back at him. “What were you just saying about underestimating your opponent?”

What the man is saying clicks just in time for Yamcha to turn and see the saibaman springing for him and then it’s got its limbs wrapped around him, pinning his arms, neutralizing most of his attacks, he shouldn’t have let his guard down, not after the trouble it’s caused him in the past but he doesn’t have much time for self-recrimination because the saibaman’s ki is suddenly spiking, fluctuating wildly as Yamcha redoubles his efforts to break free-

-there is a flash, a moment of heat-

Yamcha blinks. Touches his face, his chest. Stares at his friends.

How the fuck did he survive that?

Then Krillin shouts his name and dashes over, and Yamcha chuckles a bit, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, don’t freak out, Krill, let’s focus on-”

But Krillin ignores him, drops to his knees by Yamcha’s feet and-

Oh.

He looks at his hands, _really_ looks, and sees the faint shapes of the ground through them

Apparently he didn’t survive then.

Damn.

He reaches out towards Krillin, even though he knows his friend can’t see him, even though he knows, on some level, that it will be ineffective, but before his hand gets close a gust of wind passes through and it catches him, blows him away, from the battlefield, from his friends, from what’s left of his body. And at first he struggles, trying to escape, trying to get back, to at least _watch_ even if there’s nothing he can do to help, but he can’t escape the wind’s grasp and finally he stops resisting.

And once he does, he realizes that this feels surprisingly natural, letting the wind carry him like this, almost as though he’s done it before. And, what’s more, it doesn’t feel random – the wind is taking him somewhere, somewhere good, somewhere he wants to go, where he’s supposed to be, _home_ -

Then there’s a yanking sensation and he’s somewhere else entirely, someone’s hand on the collar of his gi and one of his own hands still outstretched, reaching for- for something, he doesn’t know what, but it had been _important_ , and precious, and he can’t help keening at the loss of it-

And then he’s screaming because, wherever he is now, it’s wrong, it’s _wrong_ , he’s not supposed to be here and it hurts it hurts it **_hurts_** -

A firm hand grabs his arm and through the blurring, torturous pain he can feel a vague something being done, and then the pain stops like it was never there and he blinks in surprise. Kami is standing in front of him, having just finished painting something onto Yamcha’s right palm that looks a bit like the old style writing system. Even as he watches the characters glow golden and sink into his skin, vanishing before he can make out what they say. Kami lets go and he quickly reclaims his arm, staring at his palm in confusion before turning his puzzled gaze to Kami. “What was that?”

“Permission for you to be here,” the old god says simply.

“Where’s here?” Yamcha asks, looking around. He’s in a huge room, at the center of which is a stupendously enormous red man in a purple suit, sitting behind what is possibly the nicest desk Yamcha has ever seen (certainly the largest (if he had to guess, he’d say it’s mahogany)). A line of normal-sized people stands before him, dressed in white robes with halos floating over their heads. Oni dressed as office workers with white shirts and tiger-striped pants wander around with clipboards and books and piles of paper looking industrious and bureaucratic. A brief survey shows that Yamcha himself, instead of a white robe, is still in his Turtle School uniform and, while he can’t really see it, an exploratory swipe reveals a halo floating over his own head (and damn, touching it is the funkiest feeling (the _funkiest_ feeling (he’s not doing that again))).

For a moment, Yamcha’s confused, disoriented. Then it all comes back to him – the saiyans, the saibamen, the explosion- Oh. Oh yeah. He’s dead. Which means this is Otherworld. He swallows and looks at Kami again. “Will I find out how the battle ends, or do I have to move on now?”

Kami looks at him for a long moment, and it’s like he’s on the verge of telling Yamcha something, but then he shakes his head. “You do not have to move on just yet. I’ve brought you here, in flesh form, for the opportunity to receive the same training Goku has been undergoing.”

That sounds like a pretty awesome thing to be doing if he’s dead anyway, especially since, really, he just needs to wait awhile and his friends will wish him back, but there’s a slight flaw in the plan – he remembers those preservation chambers Bulma had made for their friends’ bodies after the first fight with Piccolo. “I’m pretty sure I was a lot more exploded than this last time I was in my body.”

Kami merely rises a brow-ridge at him. “I patched you back up, just as I did with Goku – I _am_ Kami, after all.”

Yamcha shrugs but accepts this – it’s a valid point. “Sounds like something worth doing, then- wait, why aren’t you on Earth? Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on things?” even as he says it he frowns, noticing the restless tension surrounding the old god, how he keeps glancing over his shoulder at a certain doorway.

“I’m waiting for Son Goku,” Kami half growls in obvious annoyance, “King Kai forgot to calculate the time it would take him to return into his schedule and I’m waiting here to bring him back to Earth the instant he arrives.”

Yamcha gapes at him a moment, then… he can’t help it, he chuckles, because that’s Goku for you – always late.

A short while later Kami makes a snatching motion with one hand, then does… something that makes Yamcha’s brain hurt to watch, and abruptly Chiaotzu is dangling from the old god’s grasp, looking a little shell-shocked.

“But I blew up!” are the first words out of his mouth and Yamcha stares.

“They got you with the _same move_ as me?!” Because he’d been under the impression that the others were smart enough to _learn_ from his mistake. His estimation of Chiaotzu drops several degrees.

“What? No,” Chiaotzu shakes his head after a moment of figuring out what Yamcha meant (and Yamcha gives him this – the guy did just come directly from a vicious battle, after all), “I blew myself up.”

…this statement does not help his estimation of Chiaotzu. “ _Why_?”

“I was trying to take the big saiyan with me,” Chiaotzu says simply, “He hurt Tien.”

And, okay, that actually does make sense, because over the time he’s known them Yamcha has learned that Tien and Chiaotzu are family in a way few others will ever be, a joint unit that somehow manages to avoid codependency. And that… it lends an air of tragedy to the situation, because there’s no going back for Chiaotzu after this. He’s already used up his second chance at life.

The tragedy deepens when Kami does the grab-brain-hurting thing again not fifteen minutes later and Tien joins them, blinking as only he can and staring at his right arm for some reason.

“Tien!” Chiaotzu jumps on his friend, and if they both look a little wet around the eyes, well, Yamcha has a notoriously blurry memory at times, so he may never be able to say for sure if anyone asks him. Then Chiaotzu punches his friend in the shoulder. “You were supposed to stay alive and marry Lunch!”

…Yamcha’s memory isn’t so bad that he’s not going to remember in exquisite detail the exact shade of red Tien’s entire head turns at that one. But the humour of the situation quickly fades, because it’s revealed that Tien died using the potentially lethal Kikoho, but that he’d lived long enough to see that his sacrifice, his and Chiaotzu’s both, had been in vain. The brutish saiyan was still alive and mostly uninjured.

And now Yamcha’s watching the doorway along with Kami, because that means it’s just Piccolo, Krillin, and Gohan left against the two saiyans and, while Piccolo is Piccolo, Gohan is only five, no matter how strong he is and, for all that he is a loyal comrade with a surprisingly cunning streak, Krillin is a kind soul. Neither of them have learned to close their hearts and take a life the way Tien and Chiaotzu were taught in the Crane School, or to understand the harsh fact that sometimes death is unavoidable, necessary even, a law of the desert Yamcha feels like he’s known forever. The compassion of these two small warriors is a commendable trait, but in this instance there’s a very good chance it will get both of them killed.

But time passes and no one else from their group joins them. None of those present speak. Kami goes to stand closer to the doorway and the three dead Z Warriors lean against a wall, out of the way of the souls being sorted. Then, very suddenly, Kami shouts and there’s a blur of orange, and then Kami and the blur are gone.

“Odds are that that was Goku?” Yamcha asks drily. Tien raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t deign to comment.

Silence falls again for awhile and then, abruptly, Kami rejoins the group. With a halo over his head. Which can only mean…

Yamcha sighs and slumps further against the wall. Well, so much for going back to life. Tien goes over to speak with the old god, Chiaotzu following him like always, but Yamcha stays where he is and closes his eyes. It was a good life, all in all. He’d messed up in the end there, letting his guard down like that, and the last couple years haven’t been the best, however for the most part it was good. Maybe he hadn’t gotten married like he’d dreamed of for so long, but, looking back over it…

Pu’ar, Bulma, Bunny, Dr. Briefs, Goku, Krillin, Roshi, even Tien and Chiaotzu to a certain extent…

He tilts his head back against the wall and smiles a bit. Yeah, he hadn’t gotten married, but he’d definitely had a family. He just wishes… he wishes he’d been able to patch things up better with Bulma first. That’d he’d been able to see Pu’ar again – this one strikes a slightly bitter laugh from him. Technically he’s kept his promise to her. No new scars, no broken bones, no missing limbs. He sighs as he slides down the wall to sit. Somehow he gets the feeling she’d have preferred him to break his promise rather than to keep it like this.

After a bit he gets up to go rejoin the group, which is how he discovers that apparently a god is still a god even when they’re dead, because Kami is watching the fight still and giving them occasional updates and-

And they survive. Krillin, Gohan, Goku, they all survive, though one of the saiyans gets away – the small, cold one from Kami’s description of him, because Goku wants a rematch for some reason (and that’s Goku for you, it really is). Kami grumbles something about saiyans and then… then that’s it.

They’re dead.

No dragon balls to bring them back, death meant death after all. They’re all quiet for a moment as they process this. Then Yamcha turns to Kami.

“So… can we still try the Snake Way?”

Kami blinks at him. “Such training is no longer necessary – if you wish, I will release the three of you from your bodies and you may go to where you belong.”

“I’m with Yamcha, actually,” Tien grins, looking at Kami while giving Yamcha a sidelong glance as only he can do, “Even if it’s just for the sake of seeing how far I could have gone, I’d like to find out before I move on.”

“Me too,” Yamcha agrees.

“And I go where Tien goes,” Chiaotzu adds, stepping a little closer to his friend.

Kami stares at them for a moment, then shakes his head with a chuckle. “Who would have thought one so wild and two so dark would become such noble warriors? Very well, I will speak to Lord Yemma and-” he freezes midsentence then blinks, expression stunned, before doing the grab-brain-hurting move and suddenly he’s got a very disoriented-looking Piccolo held by the cape collar in front of him. It only takes the self-proclaimed demon king a moment to get his bearings before he turns on his other half.

“What mean you by this, old man? How have you brought me here?!”

“I’m able to bring you here because you died for the boy,” Kami says, gentle but firm, “And I have done so because hope is not lost just yet – there is another set of dragon balls. The Namekian dragon balls.”

“Namekian?” Chiaotzu asks in the stunned silence this announcement brings.

Kami glances at Piccolo, then explains when the younger one appears content to hold his silence. Turns out? Kami’s an alien, too. Yamcha feels like this should be a major shock, but, to be honest, it’s been a pretty crazy day already, and the best he can manage is mild surprise.

That does explain why Kami and Piccolo only have four fingers (or three fingers and a thumb) to a hand, though.

And about the antennae.

In any case, it also means there’s a _reason_ to go to King Kai’s now, because Vegeta had said he would be back and, while Goku wants to fight the man again and will likely insist on solo battle, who knows if the vicious alien will return alone, or how much stronger he’ll be when he does return? Besides, none of them have ever been the type to rest on their laurels when there’s even a chance they’ll be needed in a battle – even Piccolo agrees to comes (though he claims it’s because he won’t let them get stronger than him, not out of any care for Earth (though Yamcha, at least, has his suspicions about this, considering that there was only one ‘boy’ in the fight Piccolo could have died protecting (looks like the ‘demon king’ might be a little less demonic than he’d have them think))).

So Kami petitions Lord Yemma on their behalf and permission is granted, though their group receives quite the raised eyebrow from the judge of the dead. Then they’re led to the beginning of Snake Way (and, oh, it’s an actual, literal snake (huh)) and, with a final farewell to Kami, they begin to run.

By unspoken consensus they stay as a group. Even Piccolo, who could have left them all behind, limits himself to staying a few yards ahead of them – enough to emphasize his superiority while still remaining with the group. And none of them are running on each others’ heels – even if they wished to use a different formation, the narrowness of Snake Way requires them to run in a line – but Yamcha knows that even Chiaotzu, who is bringing up the rear (and whose power has always lain in his psychic abilities and ki attacks, not physical prowess or stamina), can see the self-proclaimed demon king’s flapping white cape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ki sensing is very similar to what Diablo did to maintain awareness of his greater self (though he still does it a touch differently than the rest of the group (more on that another time)), but flight is very different than dissipating into sand and letting the wind carry you, so he had a harder time with it. Also, all of you tearing your hair in frustration over Yamcha’s memory problems, don’t worry, you’ve got a friend in Kami.
> 
> When people think “the opposite of a desert,” they often picture somewhere cold and snowy, but I personally find that inaccurate, not only because sandy deserts can get very cold but because there are polar deserts. So, to me, a desert’s main characteristic isn’t its heat, but its dryness, and therefore the opposite of it would be somewhere that’s really damp or wet all the time. And, as it happens, Lake Country was born from a single panel in the manga, which shows Yamcha training while standing in deep water, because I am the Champion of Fiddly Details. (Also, no, none of the other Z Warriors are kami, it’s more that everyone has environments they prefer over others. Ex: put me by the ocean or somewhere good and rocky, and I will be a happy Trickster. Put me in farmland or a very flat area, and the mental stress starts mounting).
> 
> In the manga, Piccolo and Kami have three fingers and a thumb, in the anime it’s four fingers and a thumb. I like the added physical dissimilarity, so manga version it is!
> 
>  **In regards to Yamcha’s reaction to being in Otherworld…** Well, to put it simply, he’s really not supposed to be there, because he’s not fully dead – his territory, his greater self, still exists, and as long as that’s the case, his consciousness/soul should have returned to that. Kami interrupted this process for various reasons, which you’ll find out another time, but nature kami aren’t supposed to leave their planet, they’re not technically supposed to even leave their territory for too long, and being so far away from it was literally tearing him apart. Kami halted this process by granting him permission for him to traverse Otherworld. This permission is permanent, since these idiots seem to get themselves killed on a routine basis and it might be needed again. Yamcha has a halo because his ‘lesser self’ is dead. As for why Kami hasn’t revealed Diablo’s true nature (heh, ‘nature’) to him, we’ll find that out later, too. Yes, I know I’m leaving a lot of stuff unanswered at the moment – gotta leave you SOME motivation to keep reading this monster. ;)


	8. Old Ghosts

_AN: Quick shout-out to all my reviewers from the past month – thank-you so much for your comments and support, you were all lovely and very much appreciated! <3_

 

Yamcha doesn’t know how long they run in the unchanging light of Otherworld, but eventually a grand house – almost a small palace – comes into sight. It’s obviously not King Kai’s place – Kami said the martial arts master’s house lies at the _end_ of Snake Way and there’s still many miles to go before they reach that – but Tien calls for a halt anyway. They’ve been running a long time and Kami called everyone back in their weighted clothes, so all the Z Warriors are beginning to breathe a little hard at this point. This is also the first interesting bit of scenery they’ve seen, so they might as well stop here and sit on the doorstep as they rest. Piccolo doesn’t seem to be tired at all, but he stops with them anyway and no one questions him about it. A certain fondness for Gohan doesn’t mean the guy’s gone soft, after all, or that he wouldn’t be willing to throw one of them through the yellow clouds and into hell if they annoy him. In fact, Yamcha knows for certain that this is what will happen, because Piccolo told them so before they started running.

They aren’t on the step long, however – not even long enough for their legs to recover and make it safe to sit without standing again to a world of cramps – when the palace door opens and a pretty woman with teal skin and lavender hair in a very high ponytail pokes her head out. She smiles when she sees them and opens the door all the way, smoothing her deep purple cheongsam as she does so.

“Hello, weary travelers, and welcome to Snake Palace. My mistress, Princess Snake, is extremely fond of visitors, and she will be delighted to offer you refreshment before you continue on your way. Please, come in!”

They look at each other uncertainly, because, again, Kami hadn’t said anything about this place or stopping along the way, and the woman is quite obviously not human (and Yamcha’s doing his best to focus on the ‘not human’ part as opposed to the ‘woman’ part (and to will his face not to turn red (why are women so hard for him to interact with? ( **why**?!?)))). They are quite literally in uncharted territory here, and a false step could have dire consequences. After a moment’s consideration, Tien shrugs.

“If we encounter a problem, we’ll leave. The four of us should be able to deal with anything we find in there.”

The woman beams, taking no offence at his words. “Wonderful, my mistress with be so pleased! Do follow me.”

Inside the palace is elegantly traditional, with the very occasional touch of more modern styles keeping it from feeling like a time capsule, and Yamcha looks around curiously as they walk.

“Knock it off,” Tien hisses at him when he notices this, “You look like a hick!”

“Shut up,” Yamcha says amicable as he continues looking, “This is neat.” And who knows if he’ll ever have a chance to see something like this again? Tien may be as dignified as he pleases, Yamcha isn’t missing this.

They are led to a large room, designed to impress with its size and quality as opposed to how much stuff is in it, and at the top of some steps on the other end of the room stand three women. Two look much like the woman who led them here, except for variations in hair colour and facial shape. The third woman’s skin is a few shades darker than her attendants’, and her hair is a short and fluffy orange. She’s very beautiful, in a slightly alien way, and wearing a large white fur muff and long gloves. She smiles at them as they approach, sweet yet refined, and Yamcha looks at her and… flinches a bit. He doesn’t feel shy or nervous so much as- as _wary_. Which is ridiculous, because she barely reaches his nose and, while he knows size doesn’t count for nearly as much as many think, she’s not built like a fighter, nor does she hold herself like one, so why-

Her ki. The- the- for a lack of a better word, the _texture_ of it, it’s familiar, he’s felt ki like this before, it’s almost like Ka-

“Presenting her highness, Princess Snake!” their guide announces grandly.

-and that’s one train of thought derailed as the middle woman, Princess Snake presumably, steps forward, smiling at them, confident and charming.

“Hello, welcome to my home. I do hope you’ll- you’ll-” And she falters as she takes in their little group, her expression growing confused. Then she swallows, her cheeks pale. “Excuse me one moment.”

Without giving them time to answer she hurries over to a side door at the base of the steps, some distance from their group, not even waiting for her attendants as she opens it and slips through, closing it too swiftly for Yamcha to see anything.

“There’s someone back there,” Tien says quietly, and no one questions him because these days even Kami’s godly vision can’t match Tien’s eyes.

Yamcha opens his mouth to ask a question, but, before he can even decide which one he wants to ask, Piccolo is striding away from all of them, a grim expression on his face as he moves towards the door Princess Snake had gone through, and the Z Warriors follow him without really thinking about it. Then the Namekian is yanking the door open to reveal Princess Snake in the arms of a tall, handsome man dressed in what appears to be a male version of the attendants’ uniform – a sleeveless green changshan and purple sash over loose green pants. He looks up in shock as Piccolo growls, “I thought I heard a familiar voice.”

“What? Who is that?” Yamcha looks around Piccolo, curious at the expression on the man’s face, like he’s just seen a ghost (which, technically, he has (make that a ghost of someone he knows)).

“Another saiyan,” Tien spits out and Yamcha resists the urge to roll his eyes because, while they might not be as good as Tien’s, he _had_ spotted the sharp widow’s peak, and the crazy hair, and the _tail_. He is not _completely_ unobservant.

“Not just any saiyan,” Piccolo growls, “That’s Raditz.”

Yamcha freezes for a moment, barely registering how Raditz breathes “Oh shiiiiiiit…” and moves the princess to the side as his stance becomes defensive, because this man is the reason they are here, the reason they’re dead, that Goku _was_ dead, that they had to leave Gohan in the hands of a demon, that a monster is going to be returning to Earth at some point in the future and they’ll have to fight him off _again_ , all of this, because of this man-

Tien doesn’t freeze, he grabs Raditz’s tail and squeezes and the saiyan falls to his hands and knees and it is the most terrifying thing in the world when his tail slips through Tien’s fingers like it’s made of air, but instead of attacking he spins and runs, and it’s without conscious thought that they chase him.

“Careful,” Piccolo warns as they follow the fleeing man, “He’s devious and a skilled liar.”

And he’s apparently managed to pick up some new tricks in the afterlife (because that’s definitely a halo like theirs over his head (maybe all dead souls get them?)), because when they corner him at the end of a hallway he throws a smirk over one shoulder and keeps running, passing straight through the wall as easily as he pulled his tail through Tien’s hand, leaving no trace of his passage. And whatever the walls of this place are made of it’s incredibly sturdy, because none of them can break through it.

They split up, following the ghost’s strange ki signature as best they can, though it’s oddly distorted by the building, and thus they’re tracking also by sound and sight and brief flashes of telepathy from Tien and Chiaotzu. They’re stronger than Raditz now, and faster, but he obviously knows this territory from top to bottom and the attendants are on his side, though he seems to be avoiding them for some reason (Yamcha would have thought the man would gladly accept help from any allies he has). As it is, it’s like the guy is _trying_ to draw this out as long as possible, make himself too much of a nuisance to be worth catching, and it might have even worked, except then a woman somewhere _screams_. Yamcha instinctively turns towards the sound, somewhere behind him, trying to find the source-

“ _Nagi_.”

It’s not loud, but it’s audible, and at the word – name? – Yamcha turns back in time to see Raditz skid to a halt in front of them, spin on his heel, and come sprinting back at the Z Warriors at full tilt. Yamcha braces for impact, but the man goes through him like they aren’t there (and why has he been running from them if they can’t _touch_ him?!) but there’s no time to linger or wonder because he’s still getting away.

When they catch up to him again they’re all back in the room they’d started in. Piccolo is there, stretching his limbs to hold a giant blue-grey serpent behind its head so it can’t twist out of his grip, a ball of ki in his free hand and aimed at the creature in a threatening manner. Before the two stands Raditz, tail lashing like he’s barely restraining himself from attacking the Namekian.

“Yes,” he’s saying softly, unwillingly as the Z Warriors enter  and circle around so they can see his face, which is drawn and tense, eyes locked on Piccolo and the serpent, “Yes, she’s one of my weaknesses.”

“Good,” Piccolo smirks, “What are your others?”

Raditz looks furious and afraid, but he answers anyway. “My tail, my inability to go through the floors and ceilings of the palace, here,” he taps his left breast, “Especially here.”

And this seems too easy to Yamcha. “How can we trust anything he says?” he demands, “You said he was a liar last time.”

“True. Why should we believe you?” Piccolo asks he saiyan, whose eyes blaze with rage even as he answers calmly.

“I can’t lie to you now, not if you ask me a direct question.”

“Why not?” Chiaotzu asks, watching the wild-maned man carefully.

“You have proper physical bodies and I’m just a ghost. If you ask, I have to answer, and honestly.”

“You seem pretty solid for a ghost,” Tien sneers and Raditz sneers right back.

“Special circumstances.”

“What do you two think?” Yamcha asks his friends quietly, keeping half an eye on the saiyan.

“I’m not sure,” Tien admits, tone equally soft, “He doesn’t look like he wants to be telling us any of this, but…”

And there is the crux of it – how can you trust a liar to be anything but a liar?

“What if we ask him something he wouldn’t want to answer if he didn’t have to?” Chiaotzu asks brightly – and in his normal speaking voice (because, for all he was once training to be an assassin, Chiaotzu doesn’t really _do_ subtle without outside instruction).

Still, it’s a decent idea – one which unfortunately sets off Yamcha’s impulsive streak (the same one that keeps getting him in trouble). Which is why he grins at the shortest member of the group, opens his mouth, and lets the first thing he thinks of pop out. “Good idea, Chiaotzu – hey, saiyan, are you sleeping with that Snake lady we met earlier?”

“Yes.” Raditz slaps a hand over his mouth a second too late to stop the obviously involuntary answer and goes absolutely scarlet. Yamcha squirms a bit, his own face feeling equally red as a blushing Tien whacks him on the back of the head.

“Dude, I was joking-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Raditz interrupts him through gritted teeth, “I still have to answer! Now enough games – you’ve got me trapped, you obviously want revenge, so take it already!”

Yamcha, for one, doesn’t need telling twice. “This is for Goku,” he growls just before his fist strikes. And it is, but it’s also for Tien and Chiaotzu, who will probably stay dead to stay together, for Chichi, who lost a husband and a son, for Gohan, who lost a father and suffered who knows what this past year, for Krillin, who had to watch them all die, for Bulma, who’s dropped everything to go to Namek and bring them all home (even though it’s a busy time of year for her company and she’s going to lose money as a result), for the little bit of hope and magic that vanished from the world with the dragon balls and Kami, for a future that is no longer bright because it holds the threat of Vegeta’s return, and for himself, because he’s never been able to help his friends but now he’s been presented with the opportunity to strike back at the saiyan who is at the root of all this, and he’s only human.

He takes it.

And his fist connects so sweetly, a bit above the place Raditz had indicated as his weakest point, not full-on, not at full power, not even with ki, because there are limits even to revenge, but this being has caused so much pain and Yamcha wants him to feel pain in return, pain he should be feeling in _hell_ with the rest of the monsters, and his fist connects with the man who has fractured their world-

-and Raditz fractures in turn. Cracks of white light form in him, zig-zagging out in jagged patterns originating from where Yamcha struck him and Raditz _screams_ , a horrible, inhuman sound as he collapses to the floor, a sound that goes on and on as the fractures spread and he _writhes_ , and it’s horrifying and sickening and _wrong_ and he didn’t want this, whatever else he had wanted, Yamcha _hadn’t wanted this_ and he’s frozen, unable to move, to speak, only able to stare at this abomination he has caused-

There is a scent of fire, a curse that sounds like Piccolo, and then Yamcha is shoved bodily aside. “ ** _Move!_** ”

And now Princess Snake is by Raditz. She’s lost her muff and is looking distinctly ruffled, but she moves with purpose, intensity, avoiding Raditz’s thrashing limbs with ease, one hand sliding through them to rest on the place Yamcha struck and she breathes in then lets it out in a hiss that sounds like a command and the fractures, the fractures stop spreading. Then, with agonizing slowness, they begin to close, and Raditz finally stops screaming, though he’s obviously still in pain, breathing in great sobs, soaked with tears and sweat. Eventually even his breathing quiets, and he opens his eyes and looks at them before slowly, painfully sitting up and leaning on Princess Snake. She’s a good foot and change shorter than him, and likely many pounds lighter, yet she supports his shaking form with ease, and the way they move together…

Yamcha finds he actually _can_ feel worse that he had, because that question he’d asked earlier… he shouldn’t have asked that, he _really_ shouldn’t have asked that. He swallows and Princess Snake glares at him. Her face is different, more angular, her eyes more slanted and narrower, her eyebrows heavy and black. She looks more serpentine, more dangerous, than the charming noblewoman they’d briefly met.

“You are _incredibly_ lucky,” she says in an icy hiss to Yamcha, “If you had struck a little harder or a little lower, you might actually have destroyed him, and the destruction of a pure soul is possibly the greatest crime there is. As it is, be glad he’s in my service, or I wouldn’t have been able to heal him.”

“Pure, him?” Tien asks skeptically, coming to stand by Yamcha’s shoulder, Chiaotzu on Yamcha’s other side – a quiet show of support for a comrade, if not what he’s just done. He hears Piccolo approaching as well.

“Yes, pure, him,” Princess Snake snaps back, “He’s recently been cleansed, so whatever he was when you knew him, however black his heart, he is now unstained. And even if he wasn’t,” her tone becomes venomous and possessive, “He is _my_ servant, and whose road do you think you’ve been running on?”

“…Lord Yemma’s?” Chiaotzu asks hesitantly, and flinches behind Yamcha as the look this earns him.

“Of course it is, that’s why it’s called Yemma’s Way. Oh wait, no, it’s Snake Way, after its mistress and creator, Princess Snake!” And she is mussed and seated on the floor and has Raditz draped against her, but somehow she manages to look as dignified as any queen holding court from a gilded throne. “Yemma may decide who can step on, but _I_ am the one who allows the road to remain steady beneath their feet, rather than flinging them over the side and into hell! Which is what I have a good mind to do with all of you after this!”

And oh Kami, this is all his fault, he’s well and truly fucked it up this time, and not just for himself but for his friends as well. Before Yamcha can even begin to properly panic, though, let alone come up with a convincing argument as to why she should at least let the other three continue to run-

“No…” and they all turn their attention to Raditz as he speaks, his voice reduced to a painful rasp, “Deserved that…”

Princess Snake turns her glare on the tall saiyan at this, but it goes softer somehow, a fondness creeping in beyond that of a lady for her servant. “No, dear, you didn’t – that’s part of what being cleansed means.” Her attention shifts to a doorway, “And Corba, I see you there – go have Ratla and Pithonia make a healing tea and bring it here.”

“Yes, Princess Snake!”

There’s the sound of hurrying footsteps but Yamcha doesn’t turn to see her go because Raditz had let out a harsh croaking sound at the Princess’s words, and it takes them all a moment to realize that the saiyan is laughing, though he stops quickly enough, bringing one hand to his throat with a wince. But even after this, he speaks. “Never paid… my debts. Paid now.”

Princess Snake scowls and swats him. “You’re an _idiot_.”

He just grins and rests his head on hers.

“You’re not mad?” Chiaotzu asks, stunned, and Yamcha’s glad he did because, personally, Yamcha’s not sure his vocal chords will ever work again, and it’s a question he desperately wants to know the answer to.

Raditz simply shakes his head with a faint smile, which is apparently enough for his truth-telling-question-answering thing.

“Why not?” And so much for never talking again – the words slip out without apparent use of Yamcha’s throat, though it doesn’t let any more follow them.

The look Raditz gives him is both amused and annoyed (the latter of which is understandable, since it seems to be painful for him to talk at the moment). “Hell… is… truth.”

“And that’s quite enough of that for the moment,” Princess Snake adds sharply, “There are to be no more questions asked of my guard until the tea arrives.”

Given what she’s revealed about the relationship between her and the road they’re currently supposed to be running, none of them test her on this one; even Piccolo remains silent. Raditz closes his eyes again and lets Princess Snake support him, and no one speaks a word until an attendant with hair like polished garnets arrives with a large pot of tea and a soup mug on a tray. The reason for the large cup becomes apparent once it’s been filled and Raditz takes it in his hand – with his size it looks like a normal mug. The saiyan ghost wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent of the tea (and, recalling Goku’s own acute sense of smell, Yamcha realizes it probably smells even worse to him than it does to them), but Princess Snake just gives him a look and he rolls his eyes and drinks it down. And it must be some tea, because the lingering lines of exhaustion and pain in his face have visibly lessened when he finishes it, and he straightens to sit unsupported.

“Well, go on,” he says, voice still rough but nowhere _near_ the agonizing rasp it had been earlier, “Ask.”

Tien is the first to take him up on this. “What did you mean,” he says, no longer sneering, “When you said ‘hell is truth?’”

Raditz’s expression is equally serious as he explains himself. “When you arrive in hell – and that _is_ where I wound up – you lose your illusions, your delusions, your lies. Everything you denied, everything you hid from yourself, everything you ignored, it’s all thrown in your face. No lies, no hiding, just truth, and you can never hide from it again. And that’s the torture – having to sit there and know what you were, and being unable to do anything about it or atone.”

Princess Snake speaks before any of them can respond. “That was hell for _you_ , Ghost,” she says, her tone gentle, “Not everyone who sees themselves for what they are regrets their actions.”

Raditz looks stunned at this news, turning to focus on her for a moment. “Really?”

“Oh yes.” She returns to tidying her hair and brushing dirt and soot from her clothes as she had begun to do almost the instant Raditz stopped leaning on her (she seems to be a very fastidious creature).

Raditz’s eyes widen and go a little inward at this, no longer seeing only the group in front of him. “Yikes.”

There is a minute of silence while the Z Warriors (and Piccolo) wait for the saiyan to continue. When he doesn’t, Chiaotzu asks another question.

“How did you get out of hell?”

Raditz jumps a bit, then gives a slightly amused smirk as he answers. “Kakarrot.”

“WHAT?!?”

The question comes from all of them, even Piccolo, even Yamcha, his horror at his own actions finally receding enough for him to focus on other things, because even _he_ knows that that’s Goku’s saiyan name and why would Goku help the man he literally _died_ to defeat?!

Raditz laughs at their shock even as he answers the question. “He doesn’t know, he never saw me – I made sure of that. I watched how he got out, waited a bit, and followed. I ended up here.”

And it seems that answering questions in a way that just leads to more questions is a thing that runs in Goku’s… in Goku’s family. “Why was _Goku_ in _hell_?!” Yamcha demands as much as asks, because if there’s _anyone_ in their crazy group who should have earned a straight shot to the Upper Worlds, it’s Goku. He bites his tongue the instant after he does so, though, because he just almost worse-than-killed this guy, and Raditz is frowning at him now.

Then it becomes apparent that it was a frown of puzzlement, not censure, because a light comes on in his eyes and he shrugs. “I don’t know; I just saw him land. He must have tripped while he was running or something.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Tien’s rows knit in confusion. “I don’t see how that could have happened, Snake Way is so smooth-” he halts mid-sentence and, almost as one, all the men in the room turn to look at Princess Snake, who has just finished patting her hair back into place to her satisfaction. She regards them coolly.

“Flying I will accept, running is better,” she says, her tone prim, “But riding in the back of a delivery truck is _cheating_ , especially if you fall asleep while doing so.”

And Yamcha groans, because Goku would. For all that the guy is noble and dedicated and a magnificent warrior… he freaking _would_. “That… sounds like Goku all right.”

Piccolo just looks pained, and Yamcha can practically _see_ the thoughts in the guy’s head right now (they go ‘that is the man who defeated me’ (‘that is my nemesis’ (‘I am shamed by proxy’))). Tien lets out a snort, though whether it’s of derision or amusement, Yamcha can’t tell.

And in the silence that accompanies this revelation and Yamcha’s comment, Raditz asks a question of his own. “What happened to Vegeta? Did he survive the fight?” There is an intensity to his features as he asks this, almost a- a _concern_ there.

“He was alive when I died,” Piccolo shrugs as the Z Warriors turn to look at him, not having expected the demon king to be the sort to volunteer any information.

“How long ago was that?” Raditz actually leans forward a little at this.

“If my reckoning is correct, approximately one month.” Piccolo answers.

Raditz blinks at this, looking confused for some reason. “Then… how long did it take him to get to your planet?”

“It took him not quite a year, as you said it would,” Piccolo folds his arms and raises one brow ridge, “Know you not how long you have been dead?”

The saiyan takes no offense at Piccolo’s tone, merely shaking his head. “I thought I did, but I guess not. I thought it had been… much longer.”

“Time passes differently for the dead than it does for the living,” Princess Snake interjects smoothly before anyone can ask the question, “More so for bodiless ghosts like Raditz.”

“Oh.” Raditz looks away, his expression distant, and when he next speaks it’s barely a murmur. “…I hope he’s all right…”

None of them need to ask who he’s talking about, and Piccolo sneers.

“What care you for him? He had no intention to wish you back – that much he stated while we awaited Son Goku’s arrival.”

“He is my prince,” Raditz answers simply, as though there is no other reason needed, and this seriously makes no sense.

“Um, in case you hadn’t noticed? You’re dead,” Yamcha points out, because one thing he does know is that liege oaths tend to involve swearing one’s _life_ in service, not one’s soul. Raditz has already given his life, so any vows he had once made should no longer apply.

“So?” Raditz frowns at Yamcha like _his_ are the words that make no sense. “I’m still saiyan, aren’t I? And he is still Vegeta. Alive or dead, he’s still my prince Did _your_ loyalties die when you did?” he smirks a bit at their reaction to this profound display of dedication, “What, you thought I didn’t have _any_ good points before I was cleansed?” And, while Yamcha isn’t really looking at the others at the moment, he can feel the guilt in his own expression because, honestly? Yes. He’s been picturing the saiyans beyond Goku as murderous monsters, with no sense of honour or loyalty, and Raditz must be able to read this in at least his face because he sighs and changes the topic slightly. “What _was_ Vegeta going to wish for, then?”

“Immortality.”

“Oh.” Raditz blinks, considers this, then nods. “That is the better wish. Vegeta always was the smart one.”

And that reaction is nothing short of flabbergasting. “You’re actually okay with that?!?” Yamcha’s tone is tinged with mild horror at the thought of anyone being okay with staying dead in favour of such a horribly selfish wish.

Raditz just shrugs. “I’ve had time to get used to the idea that I’m not going back – I thought it had been much longer since I died than it has been, remember?”

“Even so,” Tien protests, “How can immortality be better than the return of an… ally?”

The saiyan hesitates for a moment, like he’s struggling with himself, but he really _doesn’t_ seem to have a choice about direct questions, as he finally answers, “Because of Frieza.” He looks around at them, must see the incomprehension in their faces, because he sighs, a resigned, frustrated sound, and runs a hand through his hair. “You might want to sit down for this one…”

And he tells them a story, a history, about a race that were neither demons nor angels, but simply in love with battle, that lived to fight, and how, once loosed from their homeworld by powers other than their own, they had begun to let this love twist.

“Our culture was going rotten,” Raditz freely admits as they listen, “And maybe that would have happened no matter who found us, or even if we’d eventually found a way into space on our own. But that didn’t happen, and the creature who first took an interest in our world, and in us once we destroyed three of his squads, was a being known as Frieza…”

And he tells them of a tyrant, a monster, a businessman whose business is quite often genocide. Who twists all who work for him, so subtly you don’t even notice it happening, until his way is the only way and blood has no more meaning than water, and far less value. Who is said to be powerful, who _must_ be more powerful than generally thought, to control such warriors as he does, to have survived as many assassination attempts as he is said to, for all that he is generally content to watch from afar as his minions do the dirty work and he sips his wine. Who needs to be destroyed, but who cannot be killed, who is too powerful for any being to destroy with but one lifetime to try.

But Vegeta, Vegeta is _strong_ , so strong already, and if he but had the time to hone himself sharper still, with the danger of mortality removed… then he could do it. He could rid the universe of this corruption…

“But how do you know Vegeta _will_ do that?” Tien asks, “You said you only realized most of what you’ve told us about Frieza and the Planet Trade after you died.”

Raditz shrugs. “Vegeta hates being told what to do; he’s not the sort to bow his head to another, no matter the reason, and he’s never liked Frieza. Given the chance, he’d kill that lizard in a heartbeat.”

“But didn’t you say Vegeta’s still insane right now?” Tien presses, “How do you know he wouldn’t wind up being an even worse threat to the universe?”

Raditz gives him a look before answering, “Because in spite of his power, in spite of his madness, Vegeta is still only one man, and one who hasn’t had much use for anyone but himself for years at that. And…” he looks away, then grits his teeth and says, “And if these dragon balls can _grant_ immortality, I don’t see why they wouldn’t be able to take it away again. Saiyans don’t live anywhere near as long as icejin. And I don’t know anyone else who would stand a chance against Frieza.”

“Goku could probably do it,” Yamcha says quietly, “He’s never failed us yet.”

Raditz… looks like he wants to believe him, he really does, but he shakes his head regretfully. “Even if he’s become a stronger warrior since we last met… your world is a soft one. Good, but soft. You have no idea what sort of monsters fly between the stars.”

“And that’s quite enough of that.”

Yamcha starts as Princess Snake reinserts herself into the conversation, then again as he realizes that Raditz is once more leaning against her, subtle lines of exhaustion slowly etching themselves into his face. The teal-skinned woman shoves the soup mug back into his hands then gestures, and an attendant comes and fills the cup from the teapot once more. Raditz looks at the cup, then at Princess Snake with an expression that can only be described as petulant.

“It’s _cold_.”

Princess Snake gives him a sweet smile that leaves absolutely no room for argument. “Drink it.”

The tall saiyan grumbles a bit but does so, and they’re such an odd pair, each of them so very alien in their own ways, and so very different from each other, and yet… they fit together so very neatly. The concern and care she shows for him, the devotion he displays to her even as he teases… Yamcha can’t help thinking that, in death, the tall saiyan has found someone far more deserving of his loyalty than the icy prince Yamcha had briefly met. He also thinks that, whoever it was Goku traded blows with on Earth, it was not this man exactly, because a man like this, well… Knowing Goku, if Raditz had been then as he is now, their group would have had a new member, and the fight with Vegeta would have gone quite differently.

“Now go lie down,” Princess Snake orders when the cup is empty, “And don’t give me that look, you need _rest_ as well as medicine!”

Raditz rolls his eyes but stands with a wince and bows to the group before turning to go, and who knows if he’ll come back before they leave and-

“Wait!” Yamcha scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps after Raditz, halting when the man turns to look at him and discovering that his tongue has tied itself into several rather interesting knots. “Look, about earlier- I didn’t mean- I’m so sor-”

“Don’t,” Raditz cuts him off firmly, “Like I said, I deserved that. Try it again, though, and I’ll hit back.” He winks, then saunters off, albeit a little stiffly, and Yamcha’s left shaking his head in confusion and gratitude.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Princess Snake invites them to a meal to replenish their strength after Raditz has left, and she’s a gracious hostess in spite of the preceding events. Well, she does just give Piccolo a cup and a jug of water, but it’s a nice cup, and, anyway, it turns out Namekians don’t actually eat food (which sounds rather hellish to Yamcha, but, then, he’s a cook, so his opinion’s probably somewhat biased on the subject).

Yamcha is quiet at first – forgiven or not, this is an encounter that’s going to linger – but Chiaotzu is downright chatty. In spite of (or perhaps because of) the fact that he’s so small and strange looking, he’s never been easily intimidated by anything; it’s a trait Yamcha’s always admired. And Tien may be the silent, stoic type, but Chiaotzu has known him literally as long as anyone can remember and he’s able to get his friend talking, and then, somehow, Yamcha realizes that he’s been drawn into the conversation as well without being quite sure how he got here.

Chiaotzu might be pretty guileless, and still terrible at math, but, for all that, he can be pretty clever when he puts his mind to it. The whole group is laughing and comfortable by the time they finish eating, with even Piccolo adding the occasional comment here and there.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Princess Snake must be very fond of mirrors, because they pass quite a number of them on their way out, some with frames so ornate as to be considered works of fine art, some elegantly plain, some so old that the colour of the glass is strange and the surface faintly rippled, like looking at your reflection in water on a windy day, and not all of them show the same things. Yamcha catches sight of Tien’s second set of arms in one, even though a quick check shows that he has them hidden away as usual. In another their group looks normal, but the palace itself isn’t reflected with them; instead they’re walking in a strange place that looks like an amalgamation of several types of landscape – bamboo forest, wasteland, mountains, desert. In one mirror Yamcha finds himself, but as he was back when he first met Pu’ar, smooth-faced and dressed in his old clothes (he’d forgotten he used to wear so much yellow). He hurries past that one – looking at it makes his head hurt for some reason.

Once they’re out on the road again the others make their good-byes and begin to run again, but Yamcha only goes a few yards before turning back to Snake Palace for a last look, which is why he spots movement on the roof. A person is sitting up there, dressed in green and sporting a wild mane of black hair. Raditz. Hesitantly, Yamcha waves to him. _‘I truly am sorry.’_

Raditz waves back, open and easy. _‘No hard feelings.’_

Allowing himself a half-smile, Yamcha lowers his arm, then turns and hurries to catch up with the others.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who would like a little more detail on what’s going on with Raditz in this, you can check out my other (much shorter) fic A Ghost’s Story, which I wrote before this one and decided to incorporate into this world, on account of the fact that I really like that fic, it fit into this world very neatly, and doing so meant I had some stuff with Raditz already set up. _There’s no spoilers for this fic in that one_ , by the way, and it’s a stand-alone, so you can read it without concern should you wish to! If you just want to see this scene from Raditz’s perspective, skip to the chapter ‘The Runners.’ This was a lot of fun to write, though – I don’t often get the chance to write the same scene from two different perspectives, and it was a fun exercise to see what new details I got to add with the new point of view!
> 
> Yamcha has mostly lost Diablo’s ability to See other divine beings at this point in time, though they are still capable of recognizing him for what he is, which is why he gets a sense of what Princess Snake is more from her ki rather than reacting to her as he did to Shen when they finally made eye contact for the first time.
> 
> As a bodiless ghost, Raditz can control his tangibility in Otherworld, switching between solid and insubstantial at will. The Z Warriors and Piccolo all have their physical forms in this, and thus cannot. It should also be noted that, in an open area, they would have caught him easily, since, as mentioned, they’re all faster than him at this point, but the terrain worked in Raditz’s favour. Not only do the corridors of Snake Palace twist and bend at odd angles, making it hard to build up speed if you can’t go through the walls, Raditz is extremely familiar with the palace’s layout and the others weren’t, both facts he used to his advantage. They can track Raditz by ki because that is essentially what Raditz is composed of at the moment, though it has a different ‘texture’ to it than the ki of a living person or a ghost with a body.
> 
> I tend to headcanon that Princess Snake is extremely good with illusions and using mirrors for various things, due to the brief glimpses we get of her abilities in her episode. I especially like the idea of her using mirror magic, because it sets up this wonderful classic scenario of a woman known for her vanity surrounding herself with mirrors, with the twist that she’s often using them to see far more than just herself. Though given that she doesn’t show up much and overtly uses her powers even less, I don’t get to do much with this one, generally. (sighs)
> 
> In the manga, at least, Piccolo uses a more old-fashioned, formal way of talking, and I love it, he sounds so regal and so ridiculous at the same time, especially because Piccolo Daimao DIDN’T talk like that in the manga, so this isn’t a verbal tic left over from his previous incarnation, this is very much Piccolo putting on airs and attempting to sound cool. ^^


	9. Author Announcement

I didn’t want to do this, but it has become apparent to me that if I don’t pause now, here at the beginning of this story, then there will be no ending. I had thought I would be able to post and write at the same time, but, well. Sometimes we overestimate our own abilities – this is one of those times for me. So, until such a time as this story is completely written, I’m going on hiatus from it online. I will leave you with this, however, since so many people seem so worried about Yamcha’s memory issues:

It would be poor storytelling form to spend ten thousand words concocting an elaborate backstory for a character and to then never make more than the vaguest uses of it after the first two chapters, and I am unfond of stories that make dramatic revelations the reader has been waiting the whole story for only to end a chapter or so later. And, most of all, I cannot abide a sad ending. The content you have read thus far comprises not even a _quarter_ of the story total. It’s early days, and I have so many surprises left to share with you. Until then, take care, and thanks for coming.


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